Before 221B
by theSociopathandtheBlogger
Summary: Set in Sherlock's life before he meets John. The dangerous life he led and the causes of what led him too it. Warning for drug abuse.
1. Chapter 1

**First and foremost:**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own or have any rights to the Sherlock charecters, BBC or otherwise.**

 **Any similarities to any characters living or dead or fictional are purely coincidental. (What do we say about coincidences Sherlock? That the universe is rarely so lazy)**

 **Enjoy!**

He was running through the city, all the time using his mind palace to take the fastest route away from the main streets. He turned down an alleyway and crouched behind the skip halfway down. The blue flashing lights of the police car sped past the alleyway entrance. He smirked and sauntered off down the graffiti marked lane pulling his black hoodie over his mess of curls.

The alleyway was such a metaphor for his rebellious attitude with its litter strewn tarmac and psychedelic paint job. It resembled a life that felt too much like home now for him to give it up. He found comfort in the danger of it. Such a contradiction but that was Sherlock in a nutshell.

A memory drifted through his head, as he shuffled through the shadows. One that represented the early days of this dangerous time in his youth. He remembered it as if it was yesterday, as an 11 year old with a deductive mind a hypersensitive nature.

He could see the man in his mind. A recently married lawyer with the haunt of a wife going through a stressful illness. He had the tell-tale signs of a weak distracted man but with subtle wealth. Perfect.

Sherlock sauntered round the shop casually and innocently, nobody taking him the slightest bit of notice. Mycroft had already left the shop and was heading home, fed up of waiting for his baby brother. The timing was perfect. He walked along beside the man and reached across to the magazines in front of him.

"Oh sorry I didn't see you there" the lawyer said apologetically.

"Don't worry sir, I'm only looking" he turned and walked away, the shining Omega watch in his hand. He was impressed with his own skill as he pocketed his prize. He even thought he was home dry as he got to the end of the aisle.

"OI! STOP THAT KID"

"Shit!"

A police officer had just come round the corner of the aisle as Sherlock had swiped the watch. Sherlock ran out the shop as fast as his legs would carry him, all the way down the road and round the corner. He could see Mycroft down the road as he sprinted towards him.

"We need to get out of here" he panted as he reached his brother, a manic excitement in his eyes.

"For Christ's sake Sherlock. What the hell is your problem?!" Mycroft said with an angry look.

"Look we have to go now, or that Sargent will be after you too. Are you coming or not Mycroft?"

"Of course not you little criminal" Mycroft grabbed the hood of his jacket and caused Sherlock to trip backwards and tumble to the ground. The shock leaving him lying on his back for a few seconds before he registered what had happened. The older Holmes snatched the watch from his brother and pulled him up by his arm with a fierce grip.

"Officer I'm so sorry about my brother. Here's the watch you're obviously after." The policeman had just appeared, slightly out of breath from the unexpected sprint.

"Yes...right. I'm sorry son but I'm going to have to take him with me" the officer said with a surprise at the difference between the boys. Mycroft turned to Sherlock and pushed him down to sit on a step outside a shop.

"Stay there. Don't even think about going anywhere brother dear." Mycroft hissed. Sherlock didn't dare move, the threat was clear enough. Mycroft walked a few feet away and spoke to the officer in a hushed voice so his younger brother couldn't hear

"Officer please, my brother is a troubled boy. He's suffering severely from personality disorders that we're in the process of diagnosing. It makes him very disturbed and he doesn't think logically. No harm has been done, the property has been returned. Let me deal with my brother with the best means for his situation."

Mycroft always knew how to handle people and even at the age of 18 it was clear that he was capable at handling considerable power.

"I suppose I can let this slide on this occasion" a looked of pity flashes across the Sargent's face as he looked towards the boy sat cross legged on the step. Sherlock glared back. He did not appreciate sympathy especially by people he didn't know.

"However if he is caught again in any situation, I will be less lenient." The officer replied.

"That's kind of you and extremely reasonable. I'm sorry I didn't catch your name" Mycroft smiled back.

"Sargent Lestrade. Pleasure to meet you"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Daybreak had almost arrived when Sherlock woke in the alleyway . He decided the previous night that he should remain put before he walked himself into more trouble. Well he thought he decided, more like the crash from the drugs forced him to stay where he was before all hell broke loose. Sherlock thought he had slept off the majority of the crash but when he rose to his feet, his body had other ideas. He gripped the wall to stop it spinning and closed his eyes from the bright lights that stung. It was unbearable. It had been almost 12 hours since he last injected the cocaine into his system and his body was letting him know. He fumbled in his pocket until he pulled out the syringe. Yes half full. That would satisfy him until he could get some more at some point that day. He pulled up the sleeve to his hoodie to reveal the puncture marks littering the pale skinny arm. He traced the marks with his thumb in a strange nostalgic way before he plunged the needle into his arm and pushed the drug into his system. The bliss took over him as his body caught up with his mind and the drug induced haze that he has been living in for the past year returned. He pocketed the needle and set off down the alleyway.

He roamed the city for an hour or two, occasionally catching sight of himself in a shop window. The face that looked back at him was unrecognisable of the person he had been last year. The tangled curls of hair were unkempt and messy. They were a distinctive dark contrast to the pale ghostly face of the 19 year old. His cheekbones were painfully obvious and along with his malnourished frame showed a boy who has not eaten properly for a very long time. Then lastly were the tell tale signs of your typical junkie; the dilated pupils, the erratic nature and the dark circles surrounding his eyes telling stories of sleepless nights in the gutter. Sherlock's life could not get worse but for him he didn't care. The drugs were everything.

He decided his best option now was to listen to his cravings and get some more substance. The money he had pickpocketed last night was burning a hole in his pocket crying out to be spent and what better use was there than this, he thought. He had his regular dealer that lingered around Regents Park. A half an hour walk from where he was. It would have to do. He'd rather get the supplies he was used to, he wanted some quality after all. He set off down the street in longing of his destination. Thoughts scampered through his mind of deductions of the walkers by scattered with memories of his younger years. He used to walk these roads with his parents, hand in hand, as a small smiling boy. They were the years when him and Mycroft were as close as could be. It wasn't to last however as Mycroft jetted off to boarding school and university while Sherlock was left on his own. He was never one for attachment since the loss of Redbeard and this split just deepened his belief further. Sentiment was for the loosing side and when he went of to boarding school himself it was to imprint this as a part of him

His thoughts drifted towards Mycroft. The older Holmes had given up hope while he still could on Sherlock. Too may times bailing his baby brother out of trouble; to then be stolen from and unappreciated. He thought he probably was a bit harsh on Mycroft sometimes but it was a necessary means to get what he needed.

That wasn't to say however that Sherlock Holmes was always right. Mycroft did continue to care deeply about his brother and constantly tried to hunt down him in the vast modern jungle of London. The man spent a lot of time searching the boy out to make sure he was safe and attempt to bring home. However if Sherlock didn't want to be found, there wasn't much hope even starting. Sometimes he got lucky though. He'd find his little brother in a worse state than ever and manage to bring him home and get him some much needed sleep and nourishment. That was before Sherlock bolted however and he had to start the whole process again. It was a never ending battle that put constant strain on the older Holmes. Mycroft often wished he had been there to stop this madness from even beginning, blaming himself for Sherlock's fall to self destruction.

It was about 10 months ago when it all started...

 **Sorry bit of a slow chapter but needed to set the scene!**

 **Please rate and review. Thank you.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Royal Holloway University suited Sherlock down to the ground in terms of it being based in his favourite city and being able to have the freedom that younger years education did not allow. On the most part however, he found it painstakingly dull. The lectures were a blur of information that he had already taught himself and he was not the sort of person to sit patiently writing essays. Sherlock was a 1st degree student in the minds of anyone who had ever come across him, but the performance he showed would barely pass him through the first year; let alone take him to the PHD level he desired. By the time he had got to the Christmas break Sherlock knew everything there was to know about Chemistry but with no proof to show for it.

Sherlock was taking the time reluctantly to go home during his first Christmas break. Mycroft had made several threats before hand that if he did not come home for Christmas by himself then he would be bound, gagged and kidnapped by others who had the potential to take him to the family home.

"...also your liver could do with the break." Mycroft had joked down the phone on one of these occasions.

"Have you been spying on me again Mycroft?!" Sherlock said angrily.

"I don't spy. I monitor, brother dear. I do think you're consumption levels are unusually high however for a solitary drinker." Mycroft said. Sherlock could hear the smirk in his voice even over the phone.

"Goodbye Mycroft." He hung up the phone and sulked off to bed.

Sherlock had been a smoker since he was about 16 so that was no surprise to the older Holmes despite how much he despised it. However the high amount of drink he had been consuming was a new habit for Sherlock. He had needed it to keep him from driving himself insane. It let him relax in a way his mind would not allow and gave him a blissful nights sleep. This was something that was becoming harder to do as the boredom increased with the approach of Christmas. He would need something incredibly strong to get him through these weeks.

There was a big party coming up on the last day of term, and a couple of those in Sherlock's classes who could tolerate him asked him to come along.

"C'mon Sherlock everyone is going to be there it's going to be such a laugh. A couple of us are even heading to our own after-party too. Think it'll suit your style." A boy in his workshop said to him on the day of the party.

"A large gathering of gossip spreading, low level morons gathering to consume their weight in alcohol and make fools of themselves to repetitive bass noises that burn the ears of anyone with any music experience." Sherlock replied without taking his eyes from his microscope.

"You don't have to be such an arse hole about it, man." The boy walked away. "God what a freak." The boy said to his friend as they walked out of the classroom together.

Sherlock stopped examining the work he was doing and leant back in his chair and pushed his hands through his hair. He was feeling something. A sense of longing and sadness washed over him. Lonely. Sherlock Holmes felt lonely. No. He doesn't feel emotion. All emotion stands opposed to the pure, cold reason he held above all things. He had to repress this feeling. He didn't need friends.

"Hey kid! That was so true what you just said."

Sherlock turned around and saw a third year student sat at the desk behind him, tipping back on his chair and smiling.

"Well yeah" Sherlock responded warily.

"Sorry I was eavesdropping and it's probably a bit odd coming from a guy you don't know" said the student.

"I know you're a third year student studying pharmacology. You're barely passing your classes but you're sleeping with a graduate to do your work for you. You act like you don't care but you're keen to make your parents proud even if they aren't there for you most of the time because you feel you owe them the happiness of seeing you succeed." Sherlock rattled all this off with one breath. He didn't care if he was being rude, who was this kid to interrupt his work.

"How the hell did you now all that?" The student asked. There was something in his voice that Sherlock couldn't quite pick up on.

"I didn't know, I noticed." He said smirking, turning on his chair to face the student properly. "Your age tells all you need to know to see you're a final year student, obviously. I can see you're cross examining something on the microscope and by the small bottles on the desk next to you, it's likely to be medicine. So pharmacology student is looking likely. Now, you hold yourself in a typical way that shows someone who doesn't care. The cigarettes tucked in the side of your bag, the way you tip yourself back on your chair. However your clothes say expensive and chosen with care. They couldn't be afforded on a student budget so they're likely to be bought by a parent. You wear them even when they're not around to show you care, possibly for when you Skype then because they're not in the country currently so you talk to them whenever you can. You obviously want to show them your success as can be seen by your phone. I saw when it lit up a second ago for a notification. There's a photo on your screen front from when you were young. It's clear that it's you by the resolution showing the obvious age of the photo. I only briefly saw the picture but it clearly shows times of hardship, meaning your family have pushed hard to get to their wealthy position they're in at the moment. You want to succeed for them as they're the ones that made this prestigious university possible for you. This is linked to your desire to pass as can be seen by you being here past the time class has finished. Finally the girl, although you were initially keen, as most people are with women, she's now become more of a necessity. The girls handwriting is clear on those notes in front of you, they correct mistakes and write new paragraphs with the little kisses at the end to show the romantic affiliation."

"That was...amazing!" the boy replied. "You were right on every account. That's crazy."

Sherlock realised that tone of voice he couldn't pick up on earlier was awe. He smiled. Nobody had ever appreciated his skills like that before.

"Thanks" Sherlock said.

"I'm Jackson."

"Sherlock."

"Me and a couple of mates are meeting for our own gathering tonight. More intellectual group that would love to see your trick."

"Its not a trick but sure guess it'll be better than those idiots in my year."

"Great." Jackson smiled. He gave Sherlock the address and they departed ways.

At 9 that night Sherlock left his accommodation and headed to the address Jackson had given him that day. He was dressed in jeans, a long sleeved top and converse. A bit sparse for the weather outside, so as he stepped outside the cold cut-through him like a knife. But it was the way he liked it. He soon arrived at the house where the party was situated. The door at the side was partially open and Sherlock pushed it and headed through to the lounge where about 10 people were gathered.

"Mate you made it. Hey come in and meet everyone." Jackson had reached him and pulled him through to the crowd. He smelled like alcohol and Sherlock sensed there was more than that going on inside this house. "This is the kid I was telling you about. Show them the thing you can do."

Sherlock grabbed himself a cider and rattled off a few deductions to keep the intoxicated group amused and intrigued.

"I told you he was ace. Get him some of the good stuff, the kid will love it." Jackson said to the guy to his right. Everyone was starting to spread out now and the music was getting louder. The party was starting to get into its swing. The guy Jackson was talking to introduced himself as Lex and led Sherlock to the kitchen. Sherlock swallowed as he saw the array of substances and paraphernalia littering the table.

"Take this mate. You know what to do with it?" Lex handed Sherlock a small bag of white powder which Sherlock took without hesitation.

"Sure I do. I'm not a idiot. Have you got any lemon juice or a anything acidic?" Sherlock responded. He new the chemistry and the theory of drug injection, even if he'd never done it in practise.

"Woah kid. You sure you want to inject it? You look like a first timer." Lex said warily.

"Injection is more effective than any other method. I'm sure I can handle it." Sherlock replied icily. He set it all up and got the drug ready. He was pretty poor at it and spilt a bit but eventually he was ready. He took the needle and without a moments hesitation injected the cocaine into his veins.

He felt the rush of the drug in his system and his senses felt heightened. It was incredible. He didn't feel bored, he just felt energised and busy. He could see more as his pupils dilated and he felt he could achieve anything. There was no regret just satisfaction.

"The kid likes it." Lex called over to Jackson. He turned towards Sherlock. "Here's another batch. In total that should last you a couple of days of constant high. Just don't take it all at once." Sherlock nodded erratically. The evening passed in a haze of fun and stimulation. He had no idea how he got back but he managed to find himself back in his own bed when he woke up in the morning. The cocaine packets in the pocket of the jeans he fell asleep in...

 **Hi everyone! This really picking up traction now.**

 **This flashback carries on in the next chapter as I didn't realise how much I could write about it.**

 **Thank you to all who have followed this story so far :)**

 **Please rate and review!**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

His head pounced when he got up the next day. He looked at his watch, it was gone 12. Mycroft would be there in about half an hour to take him home. Damn. He jumped out of bed and instantly regretted it. He felt nauseous and sweaty, the lights burned as he stumbled towards the bathroom. There sat on the side was a needle fully prepped. Sherlock had to again wonder how he managed to get back and even prep the syringe, but in this moment he didn't care. He wanted it more than he had wanted anything before and that could only mean that he was meant to have it. He sighed with satisfaction as the drug entered his system for the second time in 24 hours. He then jumped in the shower and by the time Mycroft arrived the drug was hitting it's best stages.

"Sherlock! You're not even packed!" Mycroft glared as he entered the room. Clothes littered the floor and screwed up bits of paper covered the desk.

"Its fine." He grabbed a load of jeans and tops and hoodie and shoved them in a suitcase. "Look I'm ready now."

"That's arguable. Now do it properly."

Sherlock ran around and grabbed everything in sight. He did this with so much energy that was not normally seen in the boy. Mycroft looked at him suspiciously but said nothing. It wasn't until Sherlock fell through the door on the way out that he got quizzical.

"Are you drunk Sherlock?" Mycroft said as the younger Holmes held himself up in the doorway.

"Piss off Mycroft" Sherlock said. He didn't even care if his brother noticed, his brain was too occupied with other things to focus on the here and now.

"I don't think you should be drinking Sherlock, especially with your..."

"I don't want to talk about it Mycroft"

"You don't know how it could affect you. It's serious Sherlock, I think you should go back to the doctors. It's obviously getting worse if you're resorting to these measures."

"I'm fine Mycroft. There's nothing wrong with me. So just leave it."

"Have you even been taking your medication?"

"I SAID LEAVE IT."

The journey back to Oxford was very uncomfortable. The brothers sat in silence on the way home. However it gave Sherlock the perfect opportunity to appreciate the heightened mental stimulation that the drug gave him. His imagination roamed and he was solving equations and chemistry problems in his head. He just wished he had a pen and paper to jot it down. But why? Why not use pen and paper in his head? He could store facts and information in his head. Contain them in separate rooms to organise his thoughts and save ideas like a hard-drive. He used this high of mental ingenuity to construct his mind palace where he can store all the information he would ever need.

By the end of that day he had constructed this palace in his head with significant rooms and layouts in a complex manner. He'd barely spoken to anyone that day and his mind had gone crazy with creation but now the high was wearing off and that was dangerous. He had at least a few hours before the withdrawal sinks in. He had to keep the batches safe. He couldn't waste it all in one go as it'd be difficult to get more until he got back to London. Someone knocked on the door.

"Sherlock honey, come on down and socialise with the family. I won't tell you again." Sherlock heard the soft footsteps of his mother walking down the corridor. He pulled himself slowly off the bed and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. Stars appeared in his eyes and he pushed himself off the bed ready to join the life he didn't belong in.

The next few days passed in a blur of withdrawal and boring family stuff. He was irritable and paranoid with constant feelings of needing another hit. His family put it down to age and just the way Sherlock was. He crept out a few times a day to smoke, getting disappointed looks from his mother and father in doing so. They were too busy planning their Christmas to be too concerned. They always held a Christmas cocktail party in the family home. It consisted of a long list of relatives and good friends gathering together for an evening of well mannered frivolity. Mycroft loved it as a gain for strong wealthy and powerful contacts. Sherlock hated it. Another hit of cocaine should get him through the evening, that and drink of course.

Sherlock took his next hit of cocaine ten minutes before the party. His feeling of elation returned and he felt he would be able to get through the party. As usual the guests all arrived within the first half an hour and the boys stood at the door welcoming the guests. Sherlock greeted everyone with exuberant energy and chatted constantly to people who he couldn't even remember. Mycroft stood next to him the whole time concerned for his welfare. Soon the party developed and everyone was in the drawing room discussing everything from politics to the latest fashion for Ascot next year. Sherlock fed himself drink after drink before he got to such a point where he had no idea what he was doing or even what he was saying. He started to deduce everyone in the room much to the insult of many as he revealed their secrets in his intoxicated state. Mycroft soon realised the discomfort Sherlock was causing everyone and grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out the room and into the study next door.

"Are you having an episode or something?" Mycroft said concerned.

"No I'm not." Sherlock replied in a sulky tone. Mycroft hit him round the head with a newspaper that had been sat on the desk.

"Then what do you think you're playing at?!"

"I'm just having a bit of fun Myc" He slurred as he fumbled his way to the door. Mycroft was faster however and grabbed the door handle before Sherlock could get out.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock, you're drunk. I can't let Mother and Father see you in this state." Sherlock had been looking at the ground until now until he looked up and rolled his eyes. Mycroft grabbed his chin and pulled his face up to look at him. He dropped his brothers chin and sighed.

"You've got to be kidding me. You're high! I've tried so hard with you Sherlock and this is what you resort to."

"Its helps me. You wouldn't understand."

"No Sherlock doctors help people. Illegal drugs make things worse. What are you taking? Cocaine I guess by you're erratic state. Well is it?"

"Yes...now let me go." He made for the door again but Mycroft grabbed him from behind to stop him moving.

"Get off!"

"You're not going back out there, you're going to bed. You're going to crash soon and those people out there shouldn't have to deal with your issues." He pulled him out the door and pulled him upstairs to his room. As soon as he shut the door he started looking round "Now where is it?"

"Where's what?" Sherlock replied as he curled up onto the bed facing the wall.

"Don't play dumb with me. Where is it?" Mycroft said rummaging around the room. Sherlock said nothing.

"You would have thought you could have thought of a better hiding place." Sherlock spun round and looked towards his dressing gown. Mycroft wasn't stood there but he had just given away his hiding place. Mycroft pulled the packets our of the pocket of the gown along with the paraphernalia.

"Oh Sherlock. This is serious." Mycroft said with a concerned look towards the boy. Again Sherlock said nothing. "You can stay here Sherlock and I'll fetch you in the morning." Mycroft turned and shut the door behind, locking it as he left. Sherlock threw a cushion at the door behind his brother and started pacing the room. Now the drugs had been taken away from him he realised how much he needed them. He paced up and down. Threw things and banged on the door but nothing helped the feeling. The crash was coming he got onto his bed and slept it off.

He woke up to the sound of his door unlocking the next day. Mycroft appeared in his doorway, frowning at the disgruntled rough looking boy on the bed.

"How's our favourite junkie?" He said as he entered the room. Sherlock made a rude gesture in response.

"The withdrawal is only going to get worse brother dear."

"What does it even matter to you? You act like you care but you really couldn't give a damn what I do. It only makes more of an impression that I'm the failure and you're the one that they'll always be proud of." Sherlock said through gritted teeth as he managed to raise himself to his feet. He grabbed his phone and put his shoes on.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"A long way away from here". Every movement was painful but he still had the element of surprise. He shoved Mycroft in the chest and took his moment and ran out the room. He only had a few moments. He got to the kitchen and rifled through his Mother's handbag taking all the cash he could. He grabbed about £150 and sprinted out the door. He could hear Mycroft gaining on him behind. His brothers car sat outside, he broke the window, hot wired the car and drove it of the estate.

 **Woah double update in one day! I have too much free time.**

 **We go back to present time next chapter so you know.**

 **Thanks for sticking with my story.**

 **Please rate and review!**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Present day.

The memories had stopped flooding through his head now. He was finding thinking and walking very difficult as he reached Regents Park. Just a bit further, his cravings screamed, and he could get what he so desperately needed. His body ached with the effort the walk had caused him and part of him just wanted to curl up and sleep where he was but he knew this wasn't an option. The cravings were not that forgiving, so he ploughed on. His eyes scouted the park nervously as he crossed the grass. There was a guy leaning against a tree near to him as he walked into the park. Sherlock didn't pay him much attention until he realised he was watching him. The man was in his early twenties by the looks of him and was dressed in a smart designer suit. His hair was slicked back in a professional yet casual manner with aviators completing the look. His head turned to follow Sherlock as he passed. Sherlock turned his own head, glaring at him. The man simply smirked, waved and headed off out the park. What strange behaviour. Yet there was something about him that was so familiar though. Had he met him before and didn't remember? More than likely. Sometimes he couldn't even remember what he'd done in his drug induced haze. Or maybe he was just being paranoid? A moment later however he had forgotten all about the puzzling stranger as his cravings pounded in his head again. He felt tense and keen for the artificial stimulant to be in his hands once more.

He had texted Lex on the way down to Regents Park to meet him for an exchange so it should be a nice quick deal. There was a quiet place just past the park in the corner of a side road. It was known by a select few as a perfect deal spot. There were no cameras and it was closed off enough not to raise suspicion. He could see the entrance to the road now as he got to the outer edge of the park, the wind brushing his tangled hair into his eyes as he crossed the open expanse of green. The sky was a dark grey and a few specks of rain dropped around him. It was relatively refreshing but very cold. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself for some whisper of warmth. He couldn't remember the last time he felt warm and conformable and despite what he made himself believe he did miss the home comforts he had enjoyed at his large country estate home. He crossed the road and entered through the small gap between the alleyway and the small sheltered deal area. It was a vast contrast to the rich green of the park. The ground was barren and scattered with empty bottles of alcohol and chocolate wrappers.

"Hey mate." Lex smiled. He had always looked pretty dapper for a dealer and today was not an exception. He was dressed in smart jeans and brown shoes with a cream trench coat on top of his black jumper. It was clever really. Nobody suspects a sophisticated looking person. Of course Sherlock would have picked up on it straight away if he was a detective but not everyone could be as skilled as him he thought.

"Hello." Sherlock didn't look quite as suave. He was still wearing the same outfit from last night but now with a clear look of withdrawal on his face as well as damp hair clinging to his forehead. He looked weak and desperate in comparison.

"You look like shit mate, you definitely need a hit. I've got some real good stuff today too." Lex waved the packet in front of Sherlock's face who reached to grab it. Lex pulled it away. "Oh no not yet." He laughed before pulling four more packets out of his Trench coat pocket. Sherlock's eyes lit up with greed.

"Thought you'd like that. These extra packs are all yours for free if you do me a favour."

Sherlock hesitated. "What do you want me to do?"

"Look I've got some stuff I need to shift but I haven't got anyone to do it. It's only a couple of packs of weed it's nothing huge. Just sell it for me and this is all yours when you're done, with an instalment of an extra quarter before you start."

Sherlock hesitated again. It was a good deal, that sort of amount he was offering was a huge win for him. But then again it was risky, he knew that once he was asked to do it, there would be another favour round the corner. He could read people like a book and Lex was as clear as glass. He knew it was a slippery slope.

"Look Sherlock if you're not game it's fine. I'm sure there are other junkies out there who would love a load of free coke." Lex said in a nonchalant manner.

"Hey I'm not a junkie and I didn't say I wasn't intrigued." He paused. "Half now and half after." Sherlock reasoned. If he was going to do it, it would be on his terms or not at all. He was not a man to do the bidding of someone else out of desperation.

"Deal." Lex chucked the packets and Sherlock caught them and stuffed them in his jeans. Sherlock's pockets were now crammed full of the bags of coke in one and the weed in the other. He had never felt more self conscious and conspicuous.

"Now don't go taking it yourself. I want the money for the sales and all of it." Lex said seriously.

"Excuse me. I'm not some hippie kid." Sherlock said indignantly. "It offers no mental stimulation and that's what I'm after. If there's nothing to occupy myself then my brain rots and weed would make everything all the more dull. All that matters to me is how much use I can get out of my brain and how much knowledge I can give it and store in it. Everything else is transport." Sherlock said.

"Alright I believe you Spock. Now get out of here. I don't want to stay here all day."

Sherlock slid out of the hideout. The rain was pounding now and the wind was bitter and stung on his face. Then it all happened at once. A strong arm grabbed him from behind and pulled him to the ground. He could feel the wet ground seeping through his clothes as cold metal clicked around his wrists and he rolled his eyes at the realisation.

"I'm arresting you on suspicion of possession and dealing of drugs. You have the right to remain silent. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be giving in evidence." Said the voice behind him. The man pulled him up by his arms to a standing position. They'd obviously been watching the whole exchange.

"You little..." Lex was running at him with anger in his eyes. His hands were also behind his back but he'd managed to shake off the officer holding him. "You led them to us. You stupid junkie." Sherlock's own anger spiked and he aimed a kick at Lex, his foot making aggressive contact with the man's knee, a sickening crunch of a fracture made Sherlock smirk as Lex shrieked in pain. Suddenly he was pulled away and pushed against the car.

There were two officers at the scene. The one that was currently holding Sherlock was an older and obviously more experienced policeman. Obviously after the stunt he had just pulled, the policemen felt more need to watch Sherlock in case he lashed out again. The other that was attending to Lex was a middle aged man, he obviously had children by the care that he took when dealing with Lex's injury. Sherlock's head was pounding as the withdrawal started to settle in deeper. He was feeling all amounts of different emotions from anger to paranoia to anxiousness. He wanted to get out of here and take a hit to suppress the emotions but that wouldn't be possible. A few minutes later he was sitting in the back of the police car, resting his sweating forehead on the cool window, on the way to the station.

As soon as he got to the station he was searched and of course everything illegal was taken away from him. The invasion of privacy left him feeling weak and vulnerable, not helped by the loss of his substances. The next few hours passed in a blur of questioning and withdrawal. This was not Sherlock's first time in this situation and he knew what to say. Although today his temper was getting tell better of him and he was struggling to control it.

"This isn't your first time in this situation is it Mr Holmes. You're quite a regular to this establishment." The officer across the table said to him.

"And you're quite the regular to sordid little affairs with strings of lovers in hotels and at home when your wife is away." Sherlock replied cockily. The officers face looked shocked for a second before the stern look returned to his face.

"Watch your mouth kid." He replied.

"Or what? Going to lie to me like you do to your wife and kids."

"You're not doing yourself any favours, young man. I don't think you're in any position to pretend you know things about me."

"Pretend? I know things that you cant even imagine are possible for me to know. Things I'm sure your fellow employees would be keen to hear."

"Threats will only make your situation worse." But it was clear cracks were beginning to form in the man's stern attitude.

"Oh really? Even if I had the power to tell everyone what happened in 2014..." Sherlock replied. The interview continued in this way until the officer got so frustrated he went to get someone else.

"Oh Sherlock, here we are again." The new officer said as he entered the interview room.

"Ah Lestrade. Pleasure to see you." Sherlock drawled sarcastically. He tipped himself back on the cheap plastic chair in a relaxed manner. Detective Lestrade walked along behind him and pushed his chair back onto four legs like an annoyed teacher.

"When is this going to stop? We go through this facade every couple of months." Lestrade ran his hand through his hair as he sat down opposite Sherlock.

"And when will your wife stop leaving you for the neighbour?"

"No. We're not playing this game Sherlock."

"Whatever. Look you know I never spend more than 12 hours here at a time. I always can get myself off the charges so why bother with it at all. Speaking of which, can I have my phone call now." Sherlock said with a smile.

"Your brother won't always be there to bail you out you know. He may have power now but soon you're going to get too old to be his problem."

"We'll face that day when it comes. Right now I need to get out here and sleep of my crash. So phone call now or do you want me to reveal your marital troubles to the whole station."

"That's blackmail Sherlock."

He shrugged in response. "Arrest me then. Oh wait."

Lestrade sighed. He took the boy along the custody building to the phone next to the cells and stood to the side, close enough to hear the conversation. Sherlock picked up the phone and called his brother. It rang twice before Mycroft answered.

"Hello brother dear." Sherlock spoke down the phone. He could hear Mycroft sigh down the other end.

"You've been arrested again haven't you?" The frustration was so clear in his voice.

"When can you get here?" Sherlock responded ignoring the question.

"As much as I love playing your get out of jail free card, I can't right now. I'm at an important meeting in Europe. I cannot just abandon it. It's going to be a couple of days before I can get there."

"Stop messing around Mycroft. I need to get out. I promise I'll come with you. I'll stay for a whole week this time if necessary" Sherlock was starting to panic now.

"I can't Sherlock. I'll be there in two days though. Enjoy your accommodation, brother dear."

Sherlock slammed the phone down and grabbed his hair. He could not cope two days in here. He'd never gone that long without a hit before and he could not go cold turkey in this environment. "Looks like I'll be showing you to your room. Let's see how you get on for a longer period of time." Lestrade said to the skinny boy in front of him. The boy was looking at the ground desperately trying to think of a plan but nothing came. Just an even bigger headache and a new wave if anxiety. The detective took the boy for a shower to get cleaned up. It was not usual that the addicts they pulled in to get free showers at their expense. They were not a rehab clinic. But Lestrade felt a slight responsibility for the boy. He couldn't quite put his finger on it but he wanted to make sure the kid was okay. He had such potential after all. Once the boy was cleaned up, the detective took him to the cell and locked him in for his first night.

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	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sherlock paced his cell. His bare feet making barely any noise on the cold paved floor. Lestrade had taken his shoes before he left him in the cell. As if he'd really try and do himself in with a shoelace. The man was an idiot. He stopped pacing and sat down on the firm metal bed. His foot bouncing on the ground. He could not stay still. He felt restless. He felt erratic. It wasn't long before he got up and starting pacing the cell again. He couldn't believe Mycroft had let him down, he promised he would always be there for him. He would give him a piece of his mind when he came back.

"That's if he does come back of course"

Sherlock span round. His head gave a violent throb from the movement. "Who said that?"

"Me."

There stood in the corner was someone he didn't expect to see. The man from the park.

Without the sunglasses he could clearly see the face. Realisation sunk in as he noticed there was an element of Sherlock to him. The face was his and the voice was his. He, Sherlock, was the sophisticated man from earlier that day. But there was so much different. A healthier look to him did wonders for his appearance.

"Who are you?" He said cautiously.

"You know that already Sherlock. I'm you. Don't you remember me? I'm you before...this." The other Sherlock said looking him up and down with disgust.

"Well you can leave then because I'm fine without you. I've created a new me and I'm doing well for myself. I don't need some ponce version of myself messing with my head." Sherlock said to the well dressed version of himself.

"Oh yes Sherlock, you look like you're doing marvellously. You must be so proud." He responded sarcastically looking round at the bare furnishing of the cell.

The real Sherlock dropped his head to look at the floor and shuffled his feet mumbling to himself.

"Speak up Sherlock. And direct your speech to who you're talking to."

"You talk extraordinary like Mycroft, Sherlock."

"Oh please call me Holmes. And of course I do, I'm a construct of your own mind. But of course you knew that already."

"Okay Holmes. Are we done?"

"Oh Sherlock where are your manners. These drugs aren't helping you with those are they now. Remember Mycroft always told you to work on your manners."

"Shut up." Sherlock walked to the bed and curled up to face the wall.

"Sherlock you sulk like a child. Sit up and face me. We have a lot to catch up on."

Sherlock covered his free ear with his hand.

"You never really grew up did you. I know you can still hear me and you know that I'm not going anywhere so be a man and face me."

He rolled over and sat up reluctantly. He felt nauseous and drained.

"That's better isn't it. You know what Sherlock? You seem quite at home here. Do you remember the first time we were in here?"

"That was a long time ago." Sherlock responded. He didn't like where this conversation was going.

"How old were you? 13? You cried didn't you. You thought nobody was coming to get you. You battled with your emotions that night didn't you."

Sherlock said nothing but curled his fists up into a ball. He didn't want to remember.

"That's where all this sociopath stuff started didn't it. You didn't like the diagnosis they gave you so you made up one for yourself. The high functioning sociopath. Oh how we lapped it up Sherlock. We soaked in our own lies until we believed them to be true. Do you think if we hadn't spent the day in that cell we would be in this situation today?"

"Stop it. Just stop it." Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"We decided that night didn't we. That emotions were cold to us. That crying didn't help us. That nobody could help us. When we thought Mycroft wasn't coming to get us we shut it all out. We thought if emotion couldn't help us, what was the point in having them. It would make more space in our head for logic and reason and hard cold facts. We came out a different person from that cell."

"...I said stop it."

"The old emotional Sherlock locked in a room in our head even before your mind palace existed to contain it in. It was going so well wasn't it Sherlock. But it was still all there, maybe not the feeling but the erratic up and down of emotions you couldn't contain."

"SHUT UP!"

"You needed to contain it though, it's what landed you in that cell in the first place. Holding that glass to that boys throat because he mocked you. Your emotions were all over the place that day and your manic episode made you violent. You couldn't control yourself. You needed to control it, not the other way round."

"NO NO NO" Sherlock screamed. He wanted Holmes to stop, he'd tried to forget these things .

"This is what the drugs are all about really. You say it's mental stimulation but it's really just to feel control, to level yourself out. To feel something steady. A constant high of happiness instead of spiking mood swings."

"SHUT UP! YOU ACT LIKE YOU KNOW ME BUT YOU DONT." Sherlock swung a punch at Holmes, missed and hit the wall. Blood trickled down his knuckle. Deep scarlet against his pale translucent skin. He watched it drip to the floor off his hand.

"Hurts does it? Real feelings seeping through again? You see the problem with us Sherlock isn't that we can't feel. It's that we feel too much. We suffer our emotions, their erratic nature of ups and downs. That's why you're so wrong to call yourself a sociopath. They don't feel at all. But you do. If you look deep inside that mind palace you constructed all those months ago. If you unlock that room, all the emotions will come pouring out again. You'll let yourself feel again and not just through artificial means."

"I don't want that. I don't want to feel. Emotions are just a distraction to things that make my brain work."

"And will an emotionless nature help you now? If Mycroft doesn't come back to help you."

"...what...what do you mean?" Sherlock stuttered.

"Well maybe Lestrade is right. Maybe you're getting too old to be bailed out by your older brother."

"Mycroft wouldn't leave me to suffer. He's always been dependable. He's predictable like that."

"For someone who doesn't care, you're awfully loyal to him."

"I'm not loyal. I just know how to work him." Sherlock started pacing again, trying to work off some anger.

"Really? At the moment it seems like he's the one with the control. How would you feel if he never came back? Like Redbeard."

Sherlock stopped.

"Oh that hit a nerve. We remember Redbeard. I guess all emotion hasn't been locked away. Your withdrawal brings it back. You need people Sherlock. Why do you think I'm here now? You get so attached you can't let go. The drugs let the attachment fall away but now you've got none you need somebody again. Why do you think I'm here?"

Sherlock shook himself. "I don't need anyone."

"No of course not. I'm a figment of your imagination and you could have got rid of me at any point yet here I am still talking to you. But let's see how you do on your own."

And with that, Holmes was gone. Sherlock thumped his fists against the wall, turned and slid down the wall. That's where he remained. Curled in on himself. Alone.

 **Sorry I'm not very constant with chalter lengths!**

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	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Lestrade was sat in his office, working on a load of paperwork that he had yet to complete. It wasn't unusual that he would stay until late at night especially now since he has nobody to go home to. He loved his job though which was something at least. He couldn't concentrate tonight though. His mind kept wandering to the teenager that they'd taken into the cell a few hours ago. He had already told the custody sergeant to come and get him if anything happened with the boy in the cell. It didn't stop him worrying though. Lestrade was concerned about the boy. He had such potential to be a great man and if he was very very lucky, he might even be a good one. He just needed the support to become that person.

Lestrade had known Sherlock for 8 years. Well known is a strong word, the boy didn't let anyone in enough to befriend him. Sherlock definitely knew enough about him however. How he knew it though, the detective believed he would never know. He thought back to the first time he met Sherlock as a cocky little 11 year old. To be perfectly honest not a lot had changed; he was still a cocky boy. Sherlock had always been the same arrogant boy throughout his youth, one that irritated even the most calm officers. He was a troubled soul though and that was something that as time had passed Greg had learned more and more. There was some quirky attitude he had though that just made Lestrade like the boy. There was no denying he still found him irritating but the two had a mutual respect of where to toe the line. They helped each other out. Greg just wished he could help the boy now though. It was so obvious he was struggling, but wouldn't accept the help anyone gave him. He was even less keen to accept help from his brother.

The boy had become a regular in this station across the past 10 months, especially, and through that time Lestrade had watched him succumb more and more into his addiction. He was a common sight in the station even before his addiction. He had probably been in custody for everything from violence to theft to fraud. But the kid always came off clean. His brother cleared him of everything. Impossible really. Greg had met Mycroft a lot less frequently as he often wasn't at the station when Sherlock was taken out of custody. Of the few times he had met him though he had determined that he was extremely powerful. Nothing had to be said directly but just his general attitude and control over others was enough to prove it. It was also not a easy thing to clear charges of someone and for the amount of times the older Holmes had bailed his brother out, he was obviously above the police.

When Lestrade had first met Sherlock however, unlike his brother he had underestimated him. It wasn't long before his deductive powers overwhelmed the detective though. Sherlock had been taken into custody for a situation involving violence when he was 13 years old. It was the second time he had met the boy. Lestrade had come to interview him for the offence and Sherlock had said 7 words that changed his impression forever.

"If brother has green ladder, arrest brother."

"I'm sorry."

"The case. The one that's all over the news. You've been struggling with it for a while."

"You have evidence on the case?"

"No I knew nothing about it when it happened. I just followed the news and I solved it." This conversation continued until he had gained enough information from Sherlock's deductions to make a valid arrest. This created the foundations of the trust between the two people. The most unlikely association. Later that day Lestrade has searched the brother and found a green ladder. He arrested him on the whim of the boy and the man confessed immediately revealing how he did it. He couldn't believe it. He went to Sherlock's cell after he finished and thanked him for his assistance.

"You could make a good detective for yourself one day, just stop getting yourself into trouble."

Lestrade smiled at the memory. It was slightly sad though to consider what had become of him now. Just then Lestrade was shaken out of his thought as the custody officer knocked on his door and let himself in. Greg looked up at him and frowned. The man look worried.

"Sir there's something wrong with that kid." The officer said to him. He needn't say more as Lestrade sprung to his feet and followed the other man to the cells. He peered through the viewing slot to Sherlock's cell and did a double take. The boy was having a full on conversation with someone else yet there was nobody in the room. He watched for about five minutes before things suddenly heated up as Sherlock started shouting at the air around him before swinging a punch at the air. Lestrade gasped as he watched him hit the wall with brute strength that he couldn't believe the weak man had in him. Greg knew that going into the cell while Sherlock was hallucinating could be dangerous and could confuse the teenager further. But he couldn't just stand by and do nothing. He rifled through the keys to the cell trying to find the found right one. He sent the other officer to get him a bandage as he watched as Sherlock continued his conversation with the invisible stranger before collapsing against the wall burying his head in his arms. Lestrade closed the viewing slot and opened the door finding the right key at last. He cautiously stepped towards the teenager.

"Sherlock mate, it's me." The boy didn't respond, he seemed quite dissociative to the world around him. As if he had no idea what was going on. He crouched down next to him and gently touched his arm. No response. He took his pulse. It was erratic but the boy was in withdrawal so it was bound to be high and there seemed to be no immediate danger from that. He obviously hadn't hit tell worst stages yet. The other officer rushed in with the bandage and Greg tentatively wrapped the skinny boys hand in it, taking extraordinary care. Sherlock made no sign of acknowledgment. Greg picked the boy up. He was even lighter than the last time he had lifted him. He carried him to the bed and left him there to rest.

"I'm going to get a doctor here first thing. Keep an eye on him and if you think he poses any more danger to himself let me know immediately." Lestrade said as they left the cell.

The officer nodded and Lestrade headed back to his office. He would get a doctor in that specialises in mental health. He knew of Sherlock's health from medical records of his previous detentions in the police station. He needed some professional help and Lestrade would try and get him to accept it. He knew a psychiatrist that would be perfect for helping him. He called him up and arranged him to come down to the station the next day.

It was a long night for Lestrade who slept on the sofa in his office. He didn't want to leave the station to come back to find something terrible had happened. He woke up stiff as a board and stretched out ready for the day ahead, it was 6 in the morning. Lestrade straightened his clothes and headed down to the holding cells. The officer from the night before had gone home and Sargent Donovan was sat at the main custody desk. This was not her normal area but she was gaining more experiences in all areas to excel further in her career.

"I see the freak's back in" she said as Lestrade approached her. He frowned.

"Stop calling him that." He said defensively.

"Its what he is. You see the way he is. Cold as a machine. He doesn't even care how rude he is."

Donovan didn't like Sherlock at all. She had been the first officer to deal with his case when he was 13 after beating up that kid. He had been vile to Donovan, deducing her to the point of revealing the secrets which haunted her. Lestrade had tried to get the boy to apologise but it was a lost cause. The relationship between her and the Holmes boy had never improved.

"Just look after him for another few hours then he'll be my problem." He said. Donovan nodded returning to her work. The conversation was apparently over. He headed out of the custody block, checking on Sherlock before he left. He was lying in the same position on the bed as when he left him, his curls falling into his eyes. He looked defeated.

At 9 that morning, Steven Jones walked into Lestrade's office. He was dressed smartly in a shirt and trousers and carried a briefcase under his right arm. He was well established in his field and incredibly intellectual. Hopefully two things that would mean Sherlock would respect him.

"Greg it's good to see you mate." Steven said smiling.

"Good to see you too." He grasped his hand and shook it. "I'm sorry to call you at such short notice. I just needed your help."

"That's fine. Always here for an old friend." Steven sat down and Greg poured him a glass of water. "So what's the situation. You were quite vague on the phone."

Lestrade hesitated. It was now or never.

"Well there's this boy we've got in custody at the moment, name's Sherlock and he needs help. He's struggling with drug addiction at the moment and a mental illness I can't discuss with you for privacy reasons. I think it's better if he tells you anyway."

"I understand. I will try to get him to tell me himself as I accept you can't tell me his records. But why call me for this boy? What is it about him that makes you want to help him so much?"

"Its because I've know him for years" Lestrade said, drinking from his cup to give him something to do with his hands. He felt nervous. He just wanted to do the best for the boy but wasn't sure if he would appreciate it. He breathed and carried on. "I was the one who found him the first time he overdosed. I was just walking the streets when I found him. I wasn't working and I was heading down to meet my wife but then I saw him slumped against the wall. I recognised him when I saw him despite his messed up state. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I didn't want to believe it. I took him down to the hospital, I couldn't think about anything else right then. He was someone who needed my help. So I called the ambulance, picked up his weak body and carried him to an accessible place for the paramedics to get to him. When it arrived I went with him and waited at the hospital with him, I didn't knew who to contact or how to get hold of them. I knew of his brother but where he was or if he would come was another story. He nearly died that day and they said he would have done had not reacted so quickly. I feel responsible for the boy. I can't let him suffer now I've seen him so vulnerable." Lestrade looked at the ground. The memory stung in his mind. Steven put a reassuring hand on his friends shoulder. Lestrade gave him a weak smile. "I don't know what else to do."

"Don't worry, I'll do my best to help him. I'll talk to him and understand him." Steven said to him. Lestrade explained the situation from yesterday about the hallucinations and led him to the cells to meet Sherlock.

 **Hello! Hope you're enjoying so far!**

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	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock woke up the next day aching and stiff. He raised his hand and ran it across his tired face. He was surprised to see there was a bandage on it. He couldn't have done that, he had no means to in this cell. Especially the way his body was tremoring right now he wouldn't have been able to put it on so carefully. The only conclusion was that someone had seen what had happened last night. He groaned and lay face down on the bed. He was so embarrassed to have been seen as so vulnerable and potentially crazy. A chill ran through his body that was not associated to any of these feelings. The lack of drugs was hitting him hard and he felt cold as ice. He turned over and tried to stand, instantly regretting the action as it sent a new wave of aches through his body as well as a feeling of nausea. Soon it become unbearable and he leant over the bed to empty the contents of his stomach. He hadn't eaten for a while however and just sat there dry heaving making himself more and more nauseous. After a few minutes of this behaviour he curled himself back up into a ball again on the bed. A dark cloud spread through his mind as he settled back to the black mind-set that the lack of drugs had left him in. He knew there were other factors contributing to this black mood but currently he couldn't care about anything or the point of being alive at all. The only thing that he needed was drugs and that would settle his mind again.

Sherlock spent the next half an hour contemplating the same circle of thoughts. How much he wanted the drugs, how irrelevant life was and how he didn't want to think of anything and just be swallowed by the darkness. This comedown had hit him really hard. It was not just the length of time since his last hit but also the inconvenient collaboration of a bad mood swing. However the mood swings wouldn't have happened at all if he had a hit. There he was again restarting the cycle of thoughts. His hypersensitivity was high as well. He felt every ache, heard every noise and saw lights as bright as the sun. The drugs normally dulled down these feelings but without them his senses were unbearably overwhelmed. How did he ever live without the drugs. He sighed and allowed the blackness to swallow him. He heard a clunk and the door swung open. The sound sounded like cannon fire to his head and he tried to close his eyes tighter to the lights. He didn't bother to turn around and face the door, he felt too depressed to even move.

"Hey mate. How you coping?" Greg asked the boy.

"What do you want?" Sherlock's voice was monotonous and low.

"Come with me, there's someone for you to meet."

Sherlock didn't move. Lestrade stood in the doorway, slight impatience causing him to tap his foot on the ground.

"I'm prepared to drag you there Sherlock. Get up or do you want to make this difficult."

Sherlock shifted slightly but still didn't get up. Lestrade sighed.

"Fine then." He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and walked over to the bed. He pulled Sherlock's fragile arms round his back with very little resistance from the teenager and pulled him up by his upper arm. Once up Sherlock shook Lestrade's hand from him and walked himself next to the detective. Greg kept a very close eye on the boy on the way to the interview room in order to stop him running off. However it was not necessary as he walked solemnly with Lestrade to the interview room. Greg pushed open the door and let Sherlock inside following him closely behind. Lestrade undid the handcuffs and perched himself on the chair in the corner of the room. Steven was already sat at the table in the room when they entered.

"Ah you must be Sherlock. I'm Steven. Do you mind me calling you Sherlock or would you prefer Mr Holmes?" Steven smiled holding out his hand.

"Sherlock's fine." He mumbled back, ignoring the hand and sitting down on the chair at the table. He wasn't in the mood for this. If Steven thought he was being rude, he didn't show it and sat down opposite him. Steven pulled out a paper pad from his briefcase and a load of paperwork fell on to the floor. He calmly picked it up and pushed it back into the bag. He sat up straight and smiled at Sherlock.

"So we're just going to have a little chat today Sherlock. About your life and how you're feeling. Do you want to say anything to start us off?" He said calmly

Sherlock just sat there. His arms folded, glaring at the patronising man opposite him.

"That's okay. I understand it's difficult sometimes. Why don't I ask you some questions and you can answer what you feel like talking about?" This was going to be more difficult than the older man thought.

Sherlock continued to just sit there silently.

"Okay. So I understand you're current experiencing trouble with substance abuse?"

Sherlock responded with a shrug.

"You've got to work with me on this Sherlock otherwise we're not going to gain anything from it. Don't think of this as therapy Sherlock. It's just two people who know nothing about each other learning about a new person."

"Wrong." He replied bluntly. He couldn't help breaking his silence to prove someone wrong.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said I knew nothing about you. That's wrong. I can tell a lot about you."

"Oh? Go on then." Steven smiled relaxing slightly in his chair. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I know you're a divorced man with a teenage son. You've been recently kicked out of your flat and you're living on the floor of your friends apartment. How do you know that, you say. Because I see things. I see more than everyone else. You were obviously the one who filed for divorce which is clear by the guilt you feel about your son that's why you spoil him while he's around. That's obvious because you got kicked out of your flat. There's not many things that can allow for someone to be evicted, but a loud party destroying the property is one of them. The party obviously being thrown by your son as you're not the type to be seen exampling such behaviour. How did I know it was a party? I saw the notice for eviction fly out of your bag when you took your writing pad out. It had the reason for eviction on it. I can see you've been staying on an airbed in your friends apartment because that's who people normally turn to in help apparently. The crook in your neck, that's so obviously paining you, implies a few nights spent on a lumpy sleeping surface. While your watch alarm is set for 8 implying no alarm clock or space for possessions, probably because they're all in storage. Your clothes tell the same story too. They're creased down the front probably because you keep them folded. But why? Possibly because you don't have space to hang them so keep them folded in a box. The dog hairs tell us all you need to know about the pet your friend keeps. Now the time on your alarm. That's interesting too. Not enough time to get to work for 9, so possibly you're putting work on hold at the moment as you're keen to sort your life out. A sophisticated psychiatrist like you being able to come down to the police station on a moments notice to talk to a druggie teenager reinforces that you don't have much work to do." Sherlock rattled off. He crossed his arms again and leaned back in his chair. That should get this thing over quicker. His current hypersensitive state wouldn't allow a moment of peace in his mind so he couldn't help but notice these deductions about people.

"That was pretty impressive Sherlock. You're a very intellectual lad. But you did get something wrong." He rested his hands on the table and smiled.

Sherlock was taken aback. "I don't get things wrong."

"I'm not denying it's clever and it's only a small thing."

"What did I get wrong?" Sherlock said sulking slightly. This only made the psychiatrist smile more.

"The dog is mine not my friends. He's a Irish Setter called Toby if you're interested."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "I had an Irish Setter when I was younger. His name was Redbeard, he was my best friend."

"Was?"

"He was put down when I was about 9. He kept me calm." Oh God. Why was he saying so much he thought.

"What happens if you're not calm Sherlock?"

"My emotions waver. I can't control them, I'm manic or I'm sad and depressed. But the drugs help me they settle my emotions and calm my hypersensitivity. They're all over the place now and I'm super hypersensitive over everything because nobody's allowed me what I need."

"Have you ever had a proper diagnosis of these problems?"

"Yeah when I was about 11. Bipolar-disorder they said it was. They gave me medication and sent me to therapy but nothing helps as much as the drugs. They mean I can do things on my own as well. I don't need other people or their help. I think they were wrong about the diagnosis. I'd consider myself a high functioning sociopath." He was still talking. He hadn't discussed this for years. This guy was a stranger. Hold on. This guy wasn't anyone to him, he couldn't trust him. He couldn't trust anyone. He was Sherlock Holmes, he needed no one. He felt angry all of a sudden. His emotions had changed and he felt mad. These people weren't helping him, they were making his life more difficult.

"We can take you off the drugs. We can help Sherlock and we can get your life back on track. We'll sort the medication and therapy out again to be more effective." Steven was pleased. They were making some real progress now.

"No." Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Its okay you don't need to do it on your own."

"Have you not been listening? I don't need anybody else. I don't want to come off the drugs. I'm fine."

"This isn't a healthy..."

"SHUT UP. Who are you to pretend like you know me?" He was on his feet now, he had stood up with such force that he had knocked the chair over backwards. Lestrade had stood up too ready to react.

"Look Sherlock just calm down. We're here to help you." Steven was concerned now. The boy had such a dramatic change in behaviour. The diagnosis he had been given was obviously correct. He had a serious condition. He didn't believe he was a sociopath for one second.

"I DON'T WANT YOUR HELP. LEAVE ME ALONE." Lestrade had come forward to grab Sherlock's arm. The boy shook him off. Steven got up and moved around the desk towards Sherlock.

"Look how can we help now. You're obviously getting quite worked up from the withdrawal and your disorder. If we just..."

Steven never got to the end of that sentence as Sherlock's brain went into overdrive and he lashed out. He punched with all his might into the man's face and ran for the door. His heart was pounding against his chest with the adrenaline and withdrawal as he worked his way through the station. He could hear the officers behind him chasing him down the corridor. He headed down the stairs and lost his footing. He stumbled down the last few steps and landed face first on the ground. He tasted blood in his mouth from biting his tongue. He tried to scramble to his feet but it was too late. Someone grabbed his from behind and pushed him down to the ground again. He felt a prick in his neck as a sedative took over him and everything went black.

 **Hello all!**

 **Once again thank you for reading so far.**

 **Lots more to come and maybe another flashback next chapter.**

 **Don't forget to rate, review, follow and favourite! Thanks.**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Sherlock groaned. He felt like he'd been in a fight. One that he'd lost and come off a lot worse in. It was a feeling he knew well. His muscles were continuing to ache from the withdrawal with the now added bonus of the bruises forming from his fall and re-arrest. He tried to move to sit himself up but he couldn't. Panic coursed through him. He frantically pulled at his wrists trying to release them but it was no use. They were handcuffed to the bed. He fought, making as much noise as possible, to encourage someone to come to him. He yelled at the top of his voice but still nobody came. Could they not hear the distress he was in? He thought they had a duty of care towards him. He supposed that vanished when he pissed everyone off. They probably even thought they were helping him right now. The idiots.

"Oh Sherlock, you've made your situation much worse for yourself." Holmes said walking out of the shadows.

"Go away Holmes." Sherlock said angrily.

"Don't be rude. I'm the only person who understands you currently so I think I deserve to stay and keep you company. You can't attack me this time so it's safer too. Not that I could get hurt anyway." He smirked and leant casually against the cell wall. The boy on the bed sighed.

"...I cocked up big this time." Sherlock responded glumly.

"Hmm yes, it wasn't your finest hour was it. Even when Steven was your best opportunity to get better again. To sort your problems out, you had to ruin it didn't you. Like you ruin everything."

"You're really helping my self esteem." Sherlock responded through gritted teeth.

"I don't think that's possible. We're too big headed to have low self esteem issues. That's luckily one issue we don't suffer with. We never really cared what other people thought of us, our priority was what we thought of ourselves. That's probably why we never had friends."

"Well I don't need other people anyway." He said defiantly.

"Not even Mycroft? The person who remains to stick by your pathetic side through everything. He was there when it all started. Do you remember? When we first got the diagnosis Sherlock? Mother and Father were busy but Mycroft he came. He had so many more important things to be doing but he stuck by you, his baby brother, like he always does. What was it he said to us? Caring..."

"... is not an advantage. But it's also not voluntary." Sherlock finished. He shocked himself how we had remembered that one off phrase.

Holmes paused to let these words sink in. "Do you remember what happened after that? When we went in to the Doctors surgery?"

The boy lying on the bed closed his eyes. A memory he had long repressed came flooding through his mind from when he was 11 years old...

"Sherlock Holmes." The Doctor called. Sherlock got unsteadily to his feet and halted. Mycroft put his arm around him and gave him a brief squeeze. The younger Holmes gave him a weak smile as they made their way into the appointment room. Sherlock didn't like to feel fear; it made him feel vulnerable. He vowed one day to find a way to stop feeling fear but he couldn't think about that right now. They sat down in the doctors room.

"So we've had the results of the blood test come back and we have established that your thyroid is stable and there are no physical reasons we can find for the changes in your mood. We have to therefore establish it under the DSM-IV as a mental illness, I believe the correct diagnosis for your symptoms would be Bipolar-disorder. The reason we have come to this diagnosis is because you fulfill the major characterizations of the DSM-IV across a significant period of time which is necessary for the classification of this disorder." There was a brief pause after the doctor had said this. It was a huge leap forward in the understanding of Sherlock. Mycroft was the first to speak as clearly his brother had become temporarily mute.

"So what's characteristics does he show that match this diagnosis?"

"Sherlock possesses the majority of the symptoms used to make an accurate diagnosis but for the purposes of this initial conversation I will be brief. In terms of a manic episode, he shows signs of high self esteem, decreased need for sleep, rapid jumping thought processes, intensified speech and irrationality. Whilst in his depressive stages he shows signs of a depressed mood most of the day, decreased interest in activities, hypersomnia and psychomotor agitation. These are all symptoms associated with the disorder."

He turned to look at the younger Holmes. Sherlock was being uncharacteristically non-hyper verbal for Mycroft to believe he was okay. Possibly this was the start of a depressive episode. Mycroft needed more data to know fully. He continued to ask the questions to understand as best he could about his brothers disorder.

"So where do we go from here? What are the best treatments?"

Mycroft wanted to do everything he could to help his baby brother. He gave him another squeeze on the shoulder for reassurance. His brother didn't respond just sat there, unaffected by the world around him.

"Well normally this sort of mental illness would be resolved by a combination of methods. We would try a treatment of medication as well as therapy which can be very helpful. We often recommend in cases as serious as Sherlock's that these methods are a long term solution. This disorder is not one that is solved overnight and in some cases it never truly disappears. So these treatments should be continued until such a time when the sufferer feels strong enough to cope with their situation. More often than not people continue to use the medication as it helps to stabilise the moods. Eating well and keeping fit are important too. Exercise can help reduce the symptoms of bipolar disorder, particularly the depressive symptoms. It may also give you something to focus on and provide a routine, which is important for many people."

"Is there anything we should be avoiding?" Mycroft asked attentively.

"Why do you keep saying 'we'?" Sherlock had spoken at last. He had snapped out of his dissociative state and looked annoyed.

"We're in this together Sherlock. I won't let you suffer on your own."

"This isn't your problem. I'll do it on my own. I'm fine." Sherlock said angrily. He didn't want to be weak and desperate for other's help. He stood up to leave but Mycroft grabbed his arm and gestured back to the seat he had just vacated.

"Okay Sherlock this is the kind of confrontation you should be avoiding. You need to calm yourself down." The Doctor said reassuringly, Sherlock reluctantly returned to his seat crossed his arms and scoffed. The Doctor took this as a sign of surrender and turned back to answer Mycroft. "Well confrontation is the first thing. That can be difficult sometimes though especially in some particular moods. Also some people with bipolar disorder use alcohol or drugs to try to take away their pain and distress. Both have well-known harmful physical and social effects and are not a substitute for effective treatment and good healthcare. That's a very important thing to remember."

Sherlock opened his eyes. The memory drifting into the back of his mind again. He was speechless. The memory cut through him like a knife. They had warned him that this behaviour could happen. But he repressed the memory and that had turned out to be dark and dangerous and he had pushed away the only person who would be able to help him. No. Stop it. He didn't need to think like this. Sociopaths don't need other people and all he needed was the drugs.

"That was a good trip down memory lane wasn't it." Smirked Holmes. "As much as we need space for more important stuff in our brain, we can't delete everything as it all has some relative importance. It's time you got over this addictive state now. You've had your fun now it's time to do something with that big brain of yours."

"Do you remember how I said you sounded like Mycroft?"

"How would you remember that? You haven't seen him in so long. Maybe because you know how disappointed he would be of you." Holmes frowned.

"I don't care. I'm going to get more drugs anyway when I get out of here. I need them. They make me who I want to be rather than who I can't help but be." But the truth was he did care. He didn't want to be seen as a failure but that's what he was becoming.

"So you want to go through a detox like this again do you? Because you'll either get clean eventually or you'll die. That's the cold hard truth about it."

Sherlock knew Holmes was right but he couldn't bring himself to say it. It was true he didn't know if he could cope with another withdrawal like this again.

"You don't need it Sherlock, you've just become obsessed with it. Dependant on it I would even say.

"I'm not dependant!"

"If you're not dependant on them, why are you still taking them? You could stop whenever. Or are you afraid you can't?" Holmes was towering over him now.

"I...I...I...I want them. They make me happy." He stuttered.

"Oh really? You don't seem so sure."

His throat felt dry. He blinked hard feeling the moisture building up in his eyes.

"You're right." Sherlock muttered.

"I'm sorry I didn't hear you." Holmes said defiantly.

"I said you're right okay! I don't want the drugs anymore." Sherlock yelled. The acceptance had finally come. The thing he'd been too afraid to accept.

"That's all I needed to here." And with that Holmes was gone again.

Sherlock drifted in an out of consciousness in the next hour. He felt so tired he couldn't keep his eyes open but the conversation with Holmes and that memory kept on waking him up again. He couldn't believe how low his life had gotten and that it was taking this long to realise what he was becoming. He wasn't a user anymore. He really was an addict. A common junkie. He was pathetic.

The door banged open and in walked Lestrade. He paused before walking slowly across the room to him. It felt like an eternity for him to reach the bed. He took a key out of his pocket and undid the handcuffs on the bed. Sherlock slowly sat up and looked at the man stood in front of him, there was definite disappointment on the face looking down him. Lestrade gestured for him to move up. He scooted over on the bed and the older man perched himself down next to him. He was about to say something but Sherlock got there first.

"Look I know what you're going to say. I just need to say something first. I'm going to get clean and...i'm sorry."

That was all he needed to say.

 **So for those who don't know the DSM-IV is the medical dictionary used in the UK to diagnose mental illnesses.**

 **Once again thank you to those who have got this far with Sherlock and his adventures.**

 **More to come!**

 **Please review :)**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Night-time was falling and the sky was becoming a dark veil covering the lives of the people far below him. Mycroft was in an MI5 jet on the way back from Brussels. The meeting had been long-winded and full of the usual political measures and strained relationships between the high powers of Europe. He normally took an active part in these meetings making his opinions clear and persuasive. However, this time he had been distracted by his usual object of anxiety. His baby brother, Sherlock. The boy was getting himself into more and more trouble recently and there was only so far Mycroft's power extended to be able to protect him. His political position gave him such liberties to be able to help him so far but his concern was for the day he couldn't and Sherlock's reaction to such behaviour. He sat back in his seat and closed the laptop in front of him. There was no point working if his concentration was not at its optimum level. He would be home in a couple of hours time anyway and he could get some well needed rest in to be fully awake to bail out his brother in the morning. His mind needed to be sharp so he could tackle his younger brother's difficult attitudes. He was not looking forward to it.

He constantly wished so much for the happy energetic Sherlock he had known as a child to be here again. The one with the active imagination and the sense of enjoyment in life. He was the younger brother that Mycroft remembered and was trying to save from the depths of his drug addled mind. He knew he was still in there someone. Mycroft had some very fond memories of the two brothers together when they were younger, regretting now just how many times he had avoided playing pirates or board games with his brother. Too absorbed in his work as he got older instead of focusing on what was really important. If he had just been there for him more maybe he could have prevented behaviour like this now. Maybe they would still be close and trusting of one another. One particular memory stuck in his mind of the Holmes brothers when they were younger.

As boys the two loved the county estate on which they lived. It gave great space to run around and play in the acres of green with the large trees and bushes to hide behind. Sherlock was 5 years old at the time while Mycroft was 12. It was his first summer holidays back from Eaton and he was keen to prove to his younger brother that he was still the most important thing in his life and how he will always come back for him. It was a downgrade for his extraordinary mind to go from lectures in classrooms on sophisticated subjects to playing pretend pirates and climbing trees. But it was one of the happiest times for them both. Sometimes intellect isn't everything.

"Myc you have to walk the plank now or Captain Sherlock will stab you with his sword and feed you to the fishes himself!" He remembered how Sherlock had struggled to say his name properly. It was quite endearing.

"Never!" Mycroft shouted. He was standing on a tree stump in the garden of their home. Sherlock struck Mycroft with the foam sword and he pretended to fall back off the stump.

"Foiled again Captain Sherlock" He cried as he took his brother by his legs and pulled him down with him, tickling him relentlessly.

"No stop! Stop it!" the little boy laughed. The older Holmes released him and lay him down next to him. His little black curls surrounding his head as he giggled his head off. The captains hat lay abandoned on the ground. Sherlock rolled over to look at his older brother and smiled a small cheeky smile. He tapped him on the arm.

"YOU'RE IT!" He screamed and ran off as fast as his little legs would carry him. Mycroft laughed and set off after the boy. Grabbing him round the waist when he caught up with him and swung him round. The little boy laughed again. It was so infectious.

The day continued in this manner, with occasional breaks for food. Their mother and father were away yet again on business which was a very common occurrence, especially in the last few years. Mycroft felt he had experienced some quality time with his parents when he was younger as they had made the effort to look after him. Sherlock on the other hand had barely experienced this level of love from their parents. Often shunned to one side in favour of friends or relatives. Mycroft believed his parents were less keen to spend time with Sherlock as he didn't show as many signs of intellectual advancement as Mycroft did at a young age. They therefore just saw him when necessary and we're kind to him but not as loving as parents should be. This was possibly where Sherlock's unsociable behaviour stemmed from. As their parents took little interest, Mycroft felt it especially important therefore that the boy experienced familial love from at least one person. As dusk fell upon Oxford, Sherlock got sleepier and sleepier under the summer sun eventually falling asleep on the grass. Mycroft scooped him up in his arms and carried him back to the house to bed. He settled the little boy down to sleep, keeping the door slightly open as he left. This was something he always did to hear him if there was something wrong.

"Good night brother dear." He whispered as the boy slept calmly ready for another busy day of adventures tomorrow.

The plane gave a slight judder as it came in to land, disturbing his memory and bringing him back to reality. He gathered up his laptop and paperwork into a briefcase and prepared himself to leave the plane. The plane came to a halt on Heathrow's runway and he exited and walked across the tarmac towards the black Jaguar waiting for him.

"Where to Sir?" his driver said as he approached the vehicle.

"Home please."

"As you wish Sir." The driver opened the back door and Mycroft climbed in, grateful for the sense of familiarity. The journey back was slow and tedious with heavy traffic but eventually he reached his penthouse apartment near Kings Cross.

His apartment was as anyone expected it to be. Clean, tidy and precise. There was a large open kitchen and living area with a marble table in the centre. A cream leather sofa with a large TV was situated to the right of the room. The whole wall was framed with a view over London due to the large floor to ceiling windows and doors leading onto a spacious balcony. To the left was a corridor that led to several rooms on either side including his bedroom, a guest bedroom, his office, bathrooms and Sherlock's room. The two brothers bedrooms were next to each other with an adjoining balcony. In contrast to the rest of the apartment, Sherlock's room was much messier and stylised. Mycroft had moved into this flat about 6 years ago when he was 22. His brother was studying at boarding school at the time but Mycroft was keen to ensure there was space enough for his 15 year old brother to visit whenever he wanted. Sherlock was studying at a school in London as Mycroft believed that he would not have coped well at Eaton and would have enjoyed a school in London much more. His parents had no opinion on his brothers schooling so allowed Mycroft to make the decision. He arranged everything for preparation for his brothers coming back the next day. He knew the boy would stay at least a couple of days but he hoped that if the environment was appealing enough to the boy then hopefully it would encourage him to stay longer. He wished at least. He took one final look around and set off to bed himself.

The next morning he woke and prepared himself for the sight that would greet him when he reached the police station later that morning. He had not seen Sherlock for about a month and a half and was concerned about the state the teenager would be in. It broke his heart every time he had to see him like this but it gave him some opportunity to bring him back to safety. Even if he did sneak off daily to shoot up and eventually bolt. Mycroft had tried to stop this behaviour happening but with different levels of failure on his part. It was infuriating. He only wanted to help but Sherlock failed to see that. He checked his fridge, enough food to last him and his brother a few days at least. He quickly ate some breakfast and headed out the door checking his appearance in the full body mirror on his way out.

He arrived at the station at just gone nine and completed all the necessary paperwork. As usual he sorted out all the details and release files before Sherlock was released as his brother was not the most patient of individuals and would not stand still long enough for forms to be filled out. The process was much more complicated this time as Mycroft learnt the trouble his brother had caused while in custody. He shamefully acknowledged the behaviour and managed to make the files clean as usual. His brother was once again free of a criminal record.

"Mr Holmes." A man Mycroft recognised was walking down the corridor towards him. He had greying hair and bags under his eyes from some sleepless nights.

"Detective Lestrade, how are you? I hear you've been keeping a keen eye on my brother for me. Once again I thank you for your kind nature." Mycroft said sincerely. Shaking the detective's hand.

"You're welcome Sir. I have tried my best to help him as I feel he has higher rate potential than his current state gives him credit for."

"That is certainly true. My brother has the mind of a philosopher or a scientist but chooses to be a drug addict." Mycroft smiled weakly.

"I believe that may be close to its end though."

"I'm sorry I don't quite follow you."

Lestrade told him the few words that Sherlock had said last night making great importance to portray the sincerity of his words. Mycroft was shocked but definitely pleased. This is the breakthrough he'd been waiting for. Mycroft thanked Lestrade from his time once more as the detective was called off to deal with a separate matter.

Mycroft made his way towards the cells with the custody officer. The officer opened the heavy door. Inside was a teenager who looked worse than death. Skinnier than was healthy and a sickly pale appearance with dark eyes. Sherlock rose from the bed where he was sat, walked slowly over to Mycroft and hugged him resting his head on his brothers chest. Mycroft reacted warmly hugging his brother tight fearing however how he might break his fragile body. He stroked the black curls of his younger brothers hair as he heard barely audible sniffs from him with what Mycroft suspected were silent tears falling down his brothers face.

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **I loved writing about Sherlock's childhood, maybe I'll even write a pequel...**

 **Please follow, favourite and review. It means a lot to me when people do.**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Sherlock sat waiting on the edge of the bed in the cold cell. Mycroft should be here at some point today and he was impatient for that moment to come. Despite all the arguments and sibling rivalry that he had grown to hold against his brother, he needed him now. To be honest he always needed him, he had just been too afraid to admit it. Mycroft had always been there for him and despite his overbearing annoying nature, he did understand him. Although saying that he was very overbearing and intrusive. He couldn't count how many times his brother had interfered in his life for his own gain. Also he hated the way he felt the need to prove he was better than Sherlock, it wasn't necessary as he made a failure of himself on his own. Why was he even having this battle in his head over Mycroft? He had coped without him while his brother was at school, at university and whilst Sherlock was living in the streets. He didn't need him at all. He would get clean on his own. He would let Mycroft get him free and that would be the only interference that his older brother would have in his life. Suddenly the door opened and stood framed in the light of the hallway was Mycroft. All his anger and displeasure about his brother faded on the spot as his heart rose at the thought of someone coming to help him. He walked slowly over and hugged him. All the emotions from the previous days and even the past few months caught up with him as reluctant tears fell from his eyes. He couldn't contain it anymore. He just wanted to be somewhere safe.

Mycroft put his arm round his brother's skinny body and helped him walk out of the police station to the Jaguar waiting outside. He was obviously struggling to walk. Sherlock felt drained and emotional. Obviously his brother had worked this out as he was mostly carrying him to the car. He just wanted to sleep forever. He didn't remember getting in to the car or even getting back to Mycroft's flat. His eyes were shutting of their own accord as his body's fatigue took over him, everything faded away into black.

A crisp cool duvet surrounded his body when he woke up. His eyes slowly adjusting to his environment. He was in a large spacious room that was cluttered with science equipment, clothes and technology in a mess on the sideboards around the room. It was his room in Mycroft's flat. He was safe and warm. He pushed himself up on his elbows and reached across to the watch sat on the bedside table. It had stopped. By the judge of the light in the room it was around midday but that's all he knew. He pulled the duvet off himself and swung his feet onto the soft rug on the bedroom floor. Mycroft always liked the touches of luxury. He walked across the room and looked in the mirror. He was wearing grey pyjama bottoms and a short sleeve black t-shirt. Obviously Mycroft had helped him change when he got back. His hair was greasy with curls stuck up in every direction. His face a clear sign of exhaustion. Despite what the rough few months on the streets had done he still felt the physical and psychological pull of the drugs. The longing for the substance was clinging to him as if it feared he might forget about it. He couldn't forget about it and the next couple of weeks would be the toughest time he had ever experienced to battle these problems.

He opened the door and walked out into the corridor. His footsteps making barely any sound on the soft carpet.

"Mycroft?" He called out. No answer. "Mycroft?" He called again more anxiously this time. Still no response. Had his brother abandoned him already? Taken his work more importantly than his brother once again? He really hoped not. He didn't know if he could cope through this process without someone who understood him by his side. He hated the way his mind was swinging between solidarity and the need for assistance. He padded along to the living area and collapsed onto the sofa pushing the hair out of his eyes.

"Sherlock? Did you call?" Mycroft was coming in from the balcony grasping his phone. "I'm sorry I was on the phone, I went out on the balcony in case it disturbed you."

"Its fine." He said, yawning slightly, "How long was I asleep?"

"Oh God about 25 hours. I was starting to get worried." Mycroft sat down on the sofa next to his baby brother.

"I didn't realise how long I was asleep. I still feel exhausted though." He felt awkward too. He knew there was a conversation coming that he wasn't ready to have.

"That's because you're going through detox. You're going to feel weird for a while. Emotions will run high especially for you."

"I'm going back to bed." He got up from the sofa but Mycroft grabbed his shoulders and steered him towards the kitchen.

"Oh no you don't. Not until you've eaten something." He sat him down on the stool at the breakfast bar and set to work cooking some toast.

"I don't want anything to eat. I'm not hungry." He argued. It was true. He was never a particularly big eater and since the drugs had started he had wanted to eat even less.

"When was the last time you ate Sherlock?" Mycroft said concerned.

"Uhh I can't remember? Maybe a Monday?"

"That was at least 5 days ago Sherlock! You're body can't survive without food. You're literally skin and bones, if you carry on at this rate you'll die of malnutrition and I'm not having that on my conscience because you're a stubborn little bugger. Now eat this." He shoved a plate of toast and jam in front of his brother who stared at it with maliciousness. "It won't kill you. Much the opposite."

"Look Mycroft I know you're only trying to help but I can do this on my own. I know what my body needs and right now and it's not food. It's sleep."

"You don't know what you want. Your body is trying to tell you that you want cocaine so I wouldn't trust it's judgement. I'm going to help you with this. I'm taking the time off of work to be able to stay home with you and help you detox. You just need to let me help you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Mycroft took the opportunity to shove the toast in his mouth. Sherlock glared at his brother but ate the toast that had been forced on him. He finished one slice of toast in order to get Mycroft off his case and slumped off back to bed where he slept soundly for another 12 hours straight.

He woke up to the sound of shouting from the city below. Fear suddenly coursed through him. They were coming to get him again. They were after him. They always said they would come back to finish him off. He leapt out of bed and ran out the room. Oh God he needed to get out of here before they got to him. They might kill him this time. The shouting was getting louder. Was that his name they had just said? He needed money and a passport. He could leave the country. That would be the best option, they wouldn't know that he'd gone abroad.

"Sherlock what's all the commotion about? It's the middle of the night." Mycroft was dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown ad was walking calmly towards him. How could he be so calm in a time like this. There was the sound of glass breaking on the streets down below. To use as a weapon perhaps?

"No Mycroft go back to bed. They'll hurt you too." He rambled. "They're going to kill me and I can't let them do that to you. I have to get out of here." Sherlock was running around madly, his hands grabbing his hair in worry. He was going to hurt himself if he carried on like this, Mycroft thought.

"Calm down Sherlock. Nobody's coming to hurt you I promise. I'm here I'll protect you." He took hold of his brother's wrists to keep him still. He could see the anxiety issuing in his brothers eyes. He was paranoid. It was a common detox symptom and he had to convince him that nothing bad could happen.

"Its just like last time."

"Listen Sherlock, I work from MI5 do you really think that it would be even possible to get within 100 feet of the apartment without permission? And even if they did I'd have them imprisoned before they could put a foot through that door. Now come sit down and I'll get you some water." Mycroft led him over to the sofa where he perched nervously on the edge of the seat. Mycroft looked warily at him before going to the kitchen.

Sherlock sat anxiously for a minute before calm started to wash over him again. It was over as quickly as it has started and now the moment had passed he realised how paranoid he had been. He stood up and headed back to his room. Embarrassed at his outburst.

"Hey Sherlock come sit down. Drink this." His brother gestured. Sherlock took the water but carried on walking to his room. He wanted to be alone. "Sherlock."

"I'm fine now Mycroft. The moments passed." He said with his back to his brother.

"Come on tell me what happened. Why did you feel like that? What happened before?"

"I don't know, just the detox messing with my head I guess" He sighed. "You wouldn't understand."

"Then help me to."

"I don't know how." He said angrily.

"Just explain how you felt." His brother said reassuringly

"I can't, okay!" He kicked the chair next to him. He was frustrated and annoyed at himself. Words failed him in portraying his feelings so it came out in an aggressive way instead.

"Okay there's no need for that. Sit down." Mycroft said annoyed pointing to the sofa, "I'm not asking you now"

Sherlock pushed the chair he had just kicked roughly to one side causing it to fall over as he crossed the room. He sat.

"This is your home as much as mine Sherlock but you are to treat it with respect. I understand that you're struggling but I'm here to help you even if this mess is of your own making. I can only help you as far as you let me and I won't be having any of these angry outbursts. You need to control this temper of yours, do you understand me?"

Sherlock mumbled something in response.

"I asked you a question."

"And I said yes." He said bluntly.

"Right good. Now back to bed and we'll talk about this in the morning."

Sherlock stomped off to bed and Mycroft was yet again reminded how much of a stroppy child his brother was which was made much worse with the detox.

 **So we're into the detox phase. The next chapter should explain what happens during the rest of his detox. Lots of brotherly support.**

 **They might be a bit slower pace than the rest of the action packed chapters.**

 **Thank you once again for reading.**

 **Please review!**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The next day was tough for Sherlock. He woke up around midday but didn't have the energy to pull himself out of bed. He felt tired and a sense a dysphoria consumed him. He turned himself over to face the wall staring at it for a good 20 minutes with nothing coming to mind to enthral him. His life was just a mess ruined by himself to create a big disappointment of uselessness. He shut his eyes and tried to get back to sleep hoping that this would make the day pass faster so he wouldn't have to face it. It didn't work. All that happened was an increase in bad memories flying through his mind. He clamoured out of the bed, his eyes scanning his room for something to occupy himself with but nothing jumped out at him for something he would enjoy. He had a severe case of boredom but he couldn't find the motivation to stop the feeling, deciding instead to go and watch some TV. At least it would pass the time. Sherlock curled himself up on the sofa in the living room and put on the TV. An American sitcom was playing on the channel the TV was automatically on. He just left this on the screen. He couldn't really care less what he watched. It was just background noise to stop the darkness of his mind being the only thing to consume him. The jokes on the show were quite good but he couldn't bring himself to smile. Nothing was making him happy.

Four hours passed in this same manner. The only difference now was that two plates of food were left untouched on the coffee table in front of him. Mycroft had been in to check on him several times to bring him food and try to start conversations with him. He had little success. The younger Holmes just didn't feel like talking or moving. He felt like he was a burden on the world and on himself. Sherlock felt nothing but sadness. It consumed him and his thoughts which continued to darken every minute that passed as he ruminated over what his life had become. He was an unemployed, drug addicted, university drop out. An utter mess with nothing in the future to cause him any excitement to enable him to enjoy the current moment. The afternoon dragged by, as if every minute had been extended to an hour. As the sun disappeared beyond the horizon of skyscrapers, he dragged himself up and went back to his room. It wasn't long before Mycroft came to check on him.

"Hey Sherlock, you awake?" Mycroft asked as he sat down on the edge of the bed next to the curled up teenager.

"Yeah, why?" his voice was monotonous and low. He didn't have the energy to put emotion through his voice. He was facing the wall curled up with his knees by his chest.

"Maybe you should go get yourself a shower and get changed out of your pyjamas into some actual clothes. It might make you feel better." Mycroft put his hand on his brothers head and brushed his hair with his fingers.

"Maybe." He pushed his brother's hand away from his head and curled up further. He didn't want his sentiment, it would just reinforce what a disappointment he was to somebody else.

"Then we can play a game if you want? You know, like we used to?" Mycroft was starting to worry that he wasn't getting through to him at all.

"I don't feel like it. I'm just going to try and sleep again."

"Okay Sherlock, you know where I am if you need me."

"Okay." He murmured.

Mycroft left the room leaving the door slightly open as he left. He didn't know how to help him best, maybe it was just reinforcing the idea that he would always be there for him.

Sherlock tossed and turned in the bed for about an hour or so with no luck getting to sleep. He ran his hand across his face and sighed. Once again he got out of bed and looked around his room. He thoughts flashed to what he knew would stop this feeling, it's just whether he could get his hands on it with Mycroft on the scene. He craved the feeling of elation it gave him and he knew it would bring him out of the depths of despair that he was becoming to associate with sober life. Would this be what it would be like for the rest of his days? Too depressed to do anything whilst craving the drugs that would fix it but not being allowed them, despite being the only thing that would work. He didn't know if he could live like that. Actually no. It wouldn't be like this forever because it would be like it was before the drugs started to become his life. He'd have his crazy mood swings back and twice a week appointments with therapists. Why was being sober anything to enjoy? Why was life worth living if he had to live this way? He sank to the floor and rested his back against the bed. He wished he hadn't sat down as once again he felt reluctant to move though lack of energy and motivation.

He drifted in and out of consciousness while sat on the floor. He wasn't sleeping, his body wouldn't let him. It let him get to the brink of sleep before waking him up again. The thoughts of the drug would cross his mind along with his current struggles which would wake him up. He eventually managed to pull himself up from the floor, feeling quite stiff from the long period spent on the carpet. The darkness was a curtain on the beautiful city outside his window. He opened the door to the balcony to stand in the crisp winter air. November had come round so fast, it felt like yesterday that he was driving off with the stolen car from his family estate last December. The air was biting at his skin, sending the occasional shiver through his system. He rested his hands on the glass barrier and looked down at the courtyard below. Mycroft had chosen the penthouse apartment, he wouldn't let anyone be better than him. He must be at least 15 stories high. He did it without thinking really. He pulled himself over the barrier to stand on the thin ledge on the other side. There was nothing between him and the air now. He was like a bird in the sky as free as he wanted to be. But despite this he felt nothing. There was no fear from being stood an inch from death, there was no adrenaline from the potential jump. Just the monotonous dark feeling he had been experiencing. What if he just took one more step? He moved one foot off the ledge. Still no emotion or excitement. It did nothing to stop the boredom. He replaced his foot and realised he would have to go further to stop the boredom.

"Sherlock?" a gentle voice addressed him from behind. He turned his head to see his brother stood a couple of feet away, fear portrayed in his body language. "Please come back over."

"What for? I've got nothing to gain from it. I live for the challenge to stop myself being bored and if I'm not motivated to do that anymore what is there." He replied in his monotonous tone.

"This feeling will pass, you know it will."

"Oh yeah and then I've got some other stupid emotions prepared to reek havoc on me." He leant further forward.

"Woah please! Stop! Don't do this to me. Your loss would break my heart." Mycroft admitted. Sherlock stopped and leant back. Someone still cared about him even if he had stopped.

"Okay. I'm coming back over." It wouldn't stop the boredom anyway, he thought. It would just end the game.

Mycroft slowly edged forward and helped to pull Sherlock back over the barrier. Once over he started to half walk, half drag Sherlock back inside. He walked him back into the living room and sat him down on the sofa before proceeding to get a key to lock all the doors to the balconies.

"Uhh what are you doing?" Sherlock questioned, his eyes following his brother round the room.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm locking the doors so the balconies are inaccessible." Mycroft turned to look at his younger sibling with amazement on his face at his basic question.

"Seriously? I'm not suicidal, Mycroft." He replied sulkily. Mycroft stopped. Walked over and stood in front of his brother.

"I'm sorry? What the hell was all that about then? I found you an inch from falling to your death, Sherlock!" He said hysterically.

"Bored." He murmured back.

"BORED?! Are you shitting me Sherlock? You tried to jump of a balcony because you were bored?" He had gone beyond hysterical now. He was just angry.

"Well yeah. I wanted to see if it would alleviate the feeling and push some adrenaline or anything through my system but I felt nothing." Sherlock shrugged.

"I cannot believe what I'm hearing! You're unbelievable sometimes. People don't just threaten suicide because they're bored. Find something productive with you time, use that big brain of yours."

"I tried Mycroft but I couldn't. There was just darkness. So I decided to do something risky." Sherlock said in a very nonchalant manner. It was true. He didn't want to die he just wanted to stop feeling bored and it felt like the most exciting method. It didn't work though.

"I cannot listen to this anymore, go to bed." Mycroft ordered.

"I'm not going anywhere. You can't tell me what to do."

"Yes I can. When you live under my roof, you go by my rules. Now I'm telling you to go to bed." Mycroft shouted at him in a very parental manner. The younger Holmes raised himself off he sofa and threw the remote that was on the table beside him at the wall. It smashed into several pieces.

"That's it Sherlock. You're on your final warning." Mycroft took him by the arm and marched him back to his room.

"Stop treating me like a child."

"I will treat you like a child if you continue to throw tantrums like one." Mycroft said locking the door to the balcony. He sighed, bowing his head to look at the floor. "I'm sorry Sherlock."

Sherlock did a double take at this complete turn around.

"I shouldn't be mad" He sat down on the chair by the desk. "It was a cry for help and I should be supporting you. Not shouting and putting you down."

"It wasn't a cry for help." Sherlock replied icily.

"Don't worry I understand, the first stage is denial. I promise I'll help you though." He got up and left the room. Sherlock watched his brother leave, doubting greatly that he actually understood. He didn't think much more about it as the dissatisfaction of this evening's events left him feeling downtrodden. He settled down into bed and eventually drifted off to sleep.

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **I tried to pull on experience on the depressed sections of this chapter. (Not the suicide of course) as I wanted to make it as real as possible.**

 **Hope you like it. Please review.**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The next day he was awoken with a shake on his shoulder by his brother. He bleakly opened his eyes before pulling the duvet up over his head after realising why he was waking.

"Come on brother dear. You need to get yourself showered and dressed. We're going out this morning." Mycroft said brightly, pulling the duvet from his brothers hands revealing the messy head of hair. The teenager groaned, rolled over and pushed his face into the pillow.

"I won't ask you again." Mycroft said as he left the room.

Sherlock rested in the bed for about 10 more minutes before reluctantly getting up and heading over to the bathroom. He clamoured into the shower and allowed the warm water to run over his face as his mind wandered. He had thought fondly of the drugs across the past couple of days he had spent in Mycroft's flat. Barely half an hour passed without the thoughts re-entering his head; being alone with his thoughts only made the desire stronger as there was nothing to distract him from it. He wished he could take them more than anything but also he wished he didn't desire them at all. It was just a case over the next couple of weeks of what side of the argument will win.

He grabbed a white t-shirt and jeans from his drawer, completing the look with a black zip up hoodie. Despite what he would tell his brother, he was right. Getting a shower and putting clean clothes on did help him to feel better. Surprisingly he was even a bit hungry. Mycroft was already in the kitchen when he went to get some breakfast. He smiled at his younger brother as he entered the room, Sherlock gave him a weak smile in response. Pouring some cereal and milk into a bowl, he sat down at the breakfast bar. Mycroft leant on the work surface opposite him.

"No" Sherlock said.

"I didn't say anything." Mycroft said standing up straight and laughing slightly.

"No but you were going to say something and the answer is no."

"Okay then, what was I going to say?" He asked, still slightly amused. This annoyed the younger Holmes further.

"You were going to try and talk about last night and suggest a trip to the doctors. And the answer is no." Sherlock responded bluntly.

"Why though? It would be so beneficial for you. You would appreciate the help they could offer. Remember how much difference it made last time."

"I'm not ready yet. They'll judge me and won't believe me and I'm not ready for that."

"Of course they'll believe you. They'll have your previous medical records which will be evidence enough and nobody is going to judge."

"I don't want to, Mycroft."

"Fine then it can wait until you're ready." Mycroft said slightly disappointed.

Sherlock continued to eat his breakfast, before putting his spoon down with a ringing finality. Mycroft took the bowl to clean up.

"I need a phone." Sherlock said out of the blue. Mycroft hesitated.

"What happened to your current one?" He queried.

"I lived on the streets for about 10 months, what do you think happened to it? I lost it of course." He said simply.

"That's a lie isn't it. You didn't lose it did you? You sold it for drugs." Mycroft stated, looking at his brother for signs of truth. "Don't bother lying to me Sherlock. You know who I am and it doesn't work." He said plainly. Sherlock didn't respond. It was true but why should he give his brother the satisfaction of knowing he's right.

"Well...can I have one." He asked expectantly. His brother paused.

"I should really say no because it's like rewarding bad behaviour." Mycroft sighed. "However seeing as how you're trying to improve then yes you can have one. We'll go out this morning and you can choose one."

Sherlock couldn't believe his luck. He smiled at his brother. "Thanks"

Mycroft didn't know if he was doing the right thing but he supposed it was better than his brother stealing a phone from somewhere and it meant he could track him too.

About half an hour later the two brothers left the flat and headed towards the main street. It was the first time Sherlock had been properly outside since his arrest. He had forgotten what being out did to his mind. The smells, the sounds, the sights were all so overwhelming. It was like his mind was trying to overload on information and he could not stop it. The deductions came constantly one after another and his mind was racing at a million times and hour. He just wished he had the drugs to match the rest of his body to the speed his mind was going at. Mycroft obviously realised the pain his brothers hypersensitivity was causing him and stopped on route to the phone shop to visit a department store. He bought Sherlock a cheap pair of headphones which he gratefully accepted. He put them on. It didn't make it perfect but it cut out one less sense which made walking the streets much easier to deal with. His mind was a lot less depressed today traveling into its more erratic manic phase. Normally each phase lasted a lot longer than a couple of days but he assumed the detox was interfering with that. He hadn't truly experienced one of these phases since before the drugs as they helped to level him out. So for once he was glad Mycroft was there with him.

Eventually they reached the phone shop. Sherlock quickly picked himself out an iPhone which looked the easiest to use and one of the best phones on the market. He waited impatiently for Mycroft to sort the contract out. He paced up and down the shop picking up anything and everything. He was struggling to concentrate and was starting to grate on the shop employee's nerves.

"Mycroft can we hurry up please." Sherlock rambled.

"Slow down I can't understand a word you're saying."

"I SAID can we hurry up please, it's doing my head in standing here and waiting."

Mycroft sighed. "You're the one that wanted this phone. Now wait five minutes and we'll be done. Try not to reek too much havoc in that time." He said sarcastically.

Sherlock shot daggers behind his brother's back and wandered off out the shop. Maybe a walk around outside would shake off some energy. The sky was a crisp blue with a few clouds scattered here and there. The temperature was cold and the wind had a definite winter feel to it. He walked down to the corner and back again impatiently.

"Sherlock!" Somebody was shouting at him from behind. It wasn't a voice he had heard for a couple of months.

"Hey Jackson" He smiled as he turned to see the tall guy waking towards him. His hair was styled in a quiff and he was dressed as a generic hipster. If Sherlock hadn't known him before he started becoming a hipster then he would be avoiding all contact with him. However as it stands he was currently his only link to his life of excitement.

"You look like shit mate." Jackson laughed. He was probably right. He looked obviously like a guy going through withdrawal. "You ill or something?"

"No just a new style of life I'm trying out. You know...without the narcotics."

"Really? Wow mate never thought I'd hear those words from you. Was it the latest stint in the cells that did it?"

"How did you..." he responded looking surprised.

"Lex told me. He's pretty pissed with you."

"I didn't realise he was out. He thought I sold him out. The idiot. What gain would I have to sell him out?! What did he get anyway?"

"Just a suspended sentence for now so he's in the clear." He said shrugging. "Is that why you've gone clean then? Because you've got no dealer." Jackson laughed. Sherlock ignored him. "Anyway, iys great to see you. I'm having another party tonight, usual place, usual crowd if you want to come?"

"I don't know if I can make it." He said warily.

"Shame. Try though. You're always fun to have there."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft was coming up to meet him, clasping a box in his hand. He looked suspiciously at the both of them. "You alright?"

"I'm fine." He replied bluntly.

"Oh I see what's going on." Jackson said, smirking at the sight of Sherlock being babysat by his overly cautious older brother. "See you around." He sauntered off.

"Who was that?" Mycroft asked quizzically.

"Nobody" He said icily. Mycroft's eyes followed the other boy suspiciously down the road.

"Well what did he want?"

"I don't know."

Mycroft shook his head at his brothers uncooperative nature. "Lunch?"

"Sure." He wasn't hungry though. His mind was thinking over the conversation with Jackson. Especially the look he gave him when his brother turned up. He was mocking him for being looked after.

Over lunch he continued to think over this whilst setting up his phone. It didn't take long and he absent mindlessly thanked his brother. This made the older Holmes even more suspicious. Afterwards they continued out on their walk making some stops to pick up some food essentials. By this point Sherlock was getting really bored and started to insist needlessly that they should go home.

"We've just got one more errand to run and then we can go home." Mycroft said about half four. He led them along the streets and headed back towards the flat. Mycroft took a turn down a road and led them into a small building with a reception desk in the entrance. Sherlock wasn't paying much attention and was staring intently at his phone. Mycroft said something in a low voice to receptionist who pointed them through to a waiting room. Sherlock looked up from his phone to where he was stood with his brother. He suddenly realised what was going on. Why Mycroft had been so reasonable all day.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." He said boldly to his brother.

"Language Sherlock!"

"Don't you language me. This is what this whole day has been about. To deceive me into going to the doctors to diagnose me as mental again." He shouted. Other people were starting to look round now at the commotion.

"Calm down Sherlock." His brother said nervously. Looking round at the faces staring at them.

"Worried I'm making a scene? Ruining your wonderful reputation because everyone will realise your brothers a nutter." Sherlock temper was getting extremely high. He wanted to lash out and kick something but he just stood there fuming.

"I think you should calm down son. Come in here we'll just have a little chat." A doctor had come out to the waiting room, obviously brought out by the shouting, encouraging him into the other room.

"No because that's just what he wants." Sherlock responded pointing at his brother. He made to leave the surgery. Mycroft raised himself off the seat and grabbed hold of his upper arm.

"Will you behave yourself! I've brought you here for your own good. You need this help it's time you accepted it. You've been ignoring the problem for far too long and that's what has got you into this state." Mycroft sounded deadly serious as he said these words but the younger Holmes was not having any of it. He shook his brothers hand off his arm and bolted out of the surgery. Mycroft sprinted after him but by the time he had got round the corner he was gone.

He left the surgery fuming at the arrogance of his older brother. Always trying to fix him and mould him into a version of himself. It wouldn't work though. He was his own person and wouldn't let Mycroft change him. He headed out of the area towards the south side of London. He passed a few vulnerable tourists on route and managed to scavenge enough money by pickpocketing to buy himself a bottle of Vodka in a dodgy looking convenience store. The shop assistant didn't even bother asking for ID as despite looking younger than he was, Sherlock had a manipulative way of getting what he wanted. He sat himself down in an alleyway and consumed the whole bottle in about half an hour. He felt woozy and light headed, he enjoyed having the rush of alcohol back in his system to numb his senses. He looked at his phone, it was just gone half seven. He couldn't believe he'd been gone over two hours. Raising himself unsteadily to his feet he stumbled out of the alleyway and headed to the only place he could think of going. Jackson's party.

In his intoxicated state it took him about an hour and a half to cross the city to the party's location. It was in the same house as the one he had been in previously. The one he went to just before Christmas last year. The house was becoming more and more derelict with every visit but he didn't care. It was a good place to get drunk and in previous days to get high. He entered through the side door and was welcomed by the usual crowd of people. Jackson was stood in the middle of the crowd. Sherlock stumbled over to the group and everyone greeted him as he passed?

"You made it! I didn't think you would come to be honest, didn't think your babysitter would let you." Jackson said smiling. A couple of people around him laughed. He had obviously told them about the events of earlier that day. Sherlock swung a lazy, poorly aimed punch at the guy. A couple of people laughed again. "Oh Sherlock you're drunk already. Thought it wouldn't be long till you fell off the wagon. Now go to the kitchen and get yourself sorted out. I think you'll find everything you need in there."

Sherlock grabbed another drink on the way to the kitchen. Drinking it quickly to ensure the continuation of his current state. When he reached the kitchen it was already full with the usual junkies. The drugs spread out on the table. He stumbled and put his hands out to grab the edge of the table to stop himself falling. He lifted his hands to find them covered in the white powder that littered the table. He stared at the white that covered his hands for a while before wiping his hands on his jeans and walking away from the kitchen to get more drink. He continued to drink himself into oblivion before collapsing in a drunken haze in the early hours of the morning.

 **Woah double upload today!**

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	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Bang! The wind slammed the front door of the house shut waking Sherlock from his intoxicated sleep. His head was pounding from the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before and the details of his night-time antics were incredibly vague. What time did he fall asleep? What time did he stop remembering? He was lying on the floor in the kitchen, unsure of how he had managed to fall asleep there. He pulled himself up to sit on the closest chair to him. Looking around the room it was clear to see that he was one of the first to wake. The junkies were passed out on the worktops and chairs, resting in the most uncomfortable positions from where they passed out the night before. He scanned the contents of the table longingly before checking his phone, the battery was getting extremely low. Five voicemail messages and seven missed calls from Mycroft. He lifted the phone up to listen to the messages but the phone died just as he did so. It barely mattered. It would just be Mycroft lecturing him on his behaviour. The usual communication shared between the brothers. He staggered over to the bathroom to splash his face with cold water to wake him into a reasonable state. He was shocked to see his face when he looked in the mirror. There was a cut across his right cheekbone as if he had been punched, as well as some white substance just underneath his nose. He stared at his reflection. That can't be coke he thought. He didn't feel withdrawal enough for it to be the drugs. Saying that though, he did feel incredibly rough and he had been very drunk. He was not in any state to notice what he had been doing. He'd been in a fight he didn't even recall having. He splashed the cold water across his face, wiping the remnants of the drug from it. The water stung as it passed the cut on his cheek. He dried off his face and headed out to the living room.

"Pretty sick night, eh?" Jackson said as he entered the room. He was lying on the sofa, his hair casually styled in an cool bed hair look.

"If you say so." Sherlock mumbled in response. "Can't even remember what happened." He was struggling to talk, it was as if any noise made was too loud for his brain to handle.

"You pissed Bennett off. That's what happened. You were doing your weird thing where you told them everything you know. You told him how his girl was having an affair with his brother, so he swung round and punched you."

Sherlock didn't remember that at all. He imagined it to be something that he would do but he must have been too far gone by that stage to save the information. He pondered over whether he should ask Jackson the question that had been playing on his mind. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"I had coke all over my face when I woke up." He started. He knew what he wanted the answer to be but all the evidence was strongly against him.

"Oh yeah! I forgot about that! You decided that you weren't going to take it and one of the other junkies laughed it off. He said it wasn't the Sherlock he knew so he pushed it into your face trying to get you to take it."

"And did I?"

"No you just grabbed a pan of the oven and knocked him out with it. It was such a laugh. You were like the evening's entertainment. Everyone was putting bets on who you would start a fight with next." Jackson laughed, he had obviously had a good night even if Sherlock couldn't remember. He breathed a sigh of relief at the fact he hadn't taken the drugs. Maybe he was starting to turn his life around after all. Even his drunk doppelganger didn't want the substance.

He bid his drinking companion farewell about half an hour later and headed out on to the streets to try and hail a cab. He thought his best luck would be to head to the main road. He still had a small amount of cash left from his pickpocketing adventure last night, so he'd see where that money would take him. However in his hungover state he forgot to notice the CCTV cameras. It wasn't long before a black Jaguar pulled up on the road next to him. He turned to run down the road but a man in a suit was stood in front of him. He was unarmed but ex military judging by his stance and muscular build. Sherlock doubted very much that he would be able to get away from such a person. He admitted defeat and climbed into the back of the car. Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, was sat in the back of the car on her phone. They sat in silence on the way back. It was easier than pointlessly starting a conversation with someone he barely knew. She continued to work on her phone the entirety of the way back to Mycroft's flat, obviously feeding back information to her boss. The car pulled up outside the apartment block and he climbed out ready to face the music. The ex military bodyguard also clamoured out of the car and followed him closely behind into the building all the way to the lift.

"I can find my own way to the flat thanks." He said icily to the man stood behind him. The man said nothing but pushed him on the back to keep walking towards the lift. Sherlock glared at him but kept walking.

It felt like the longest walk ever to reach the apartment but soon he reached the door and knocked. He was not yet privileged enough to have a key. He supposed Mycroft didn't want him coming and going as he pleased. It wasn't long before Mycroft came to the door. Anthea had obviously pre-warned him that they had arrived as when he opened the door he was furious. The message 'Get in now' could not be clearer even if it wasn't spoken. Mycroft thanked the bodyguard at the door who left as he shut it with a bit more force than usual.

"Explain yourself. Where have you been?" Mycroft said angrily to the boy stood in front of him in the flat.

"You've obviously been following me so you know where I've been. I might as well ask why you've not restarted your diet again. Your obviously getting quite portly again."

"No we're not doing this, Sherlock. Now tell me what you were doing."

"I've got the worst hangover ever Mycroft can we not do this later."

"No we cannot do this later. We're doing it now, I'm not paddy footing around your withdrawal any longer. You were talking drugs last night weren't you."

Sherlock shook his head and started walking off.

"Come back here and face me when I'm talking to you." Mycroft yelled. Sherlock breathed deeply and turned sharply on the spot.

"No I wasn't taking drugs. They were at the party but I didn't take them. Happy?" Sherlock yelled back.

"No I'm not happy. I don't understand why you just can't tell the truth for once."

"I am telling the truth."

"You're jeans are covered in Cocaine. You haven't born home all night. Your previous history doesn't help your current position. Why would I believe a word you're saying?" Mycroft said exasperated.

"I wasn't shooting up in some alleyway if that's what you think, I wouldn't be that careless with the coke to drop it everywhere." He smirked.

"This isn't funny Sherlock!" Mycroft was fuming at his brothers lackadaisical manner.

"Do a drugs test then. Do whatever you want, I'll prove I wasn't high last night. Just obscenely drunk. Speaking of which have you got any more alcohol?" He joked again.

"You're seriously testing my patience now Sherlock. I'd have the right mind to kick you out and make you do this on your own, if I wasn't so concerned about your welfare."

"I don't need your concern." Sherlock said coldly.

"Well that's something you can't help. I'll always care."

Mycroft collapsed onto the sofa resting his face in his hands. He felt like he'd aged twenty years overnight. Sherlock slowly padded over and sat down next to him.

"I swear I didn't take them Mycroft. I promise." His voice was much more calm and had lost the arrogant underline to it. His brother turned his head to look at the teenager with sympathy in his eyes. The change in attitude was enough proof that he was trying to charge.

"Okay I believe you. I just didn't know what to think. You just fly off the handle Sherlock and often become so reckless, I never know what has happened to you." Mycroft said sadly. The younger Holmes didn't respond. Mycroft sighed and touched the cut on his brothers face.

"Ouch" He flinched away.

"You deduced someone too much again. Told them some home truths about a partner judging by the vicious punch that was aimed at the face."

Sherlock nodded.

"You never learn do you." Mycroft smirked and went to get some cream to stop the cut getting infected. He applied it to his brothers face like a loving parent.

"I know you don't really want to talk about it, as it's the reason you went on your drinking binge last night but please will you consider getting some proper help." Mycroft asked nervously. "I'm not going to send you to rehab don't worry. I just want you to have someone to talk to and maybe get you back on the legal medication."

He hesitated waiting for his brothers to fly off the handle once again but nothing happened. Just a slight inclination of his brothers head to acknowledge acceptance of his brother being correct was all he needed.

"Thank you Sherlock. Now you can sleep off your hangover today."

Sherlock took this as his opportunity to leave the room and wander off to bed. Last night's events just proved how erratic his moods could be. He was a reckless person and it was time he grew up and accepted responsibility for his actions. He put his phone on charge and listened to the messages from last night. They were a mixture of Mycroft being exasperated, alongside some angry messages. He deleted them all and put the phone down climbing into bed.

By the time he woke up late that evening his hangover had faded quite significantly. Heading over to the kitchen, he downed a glass of water and picked up one of Mycroft's files that was lying on the counter. It was a case file of a murder of an employee of MI5. From the file, Sherlock could see that he had been a long standing member of the government organisation working in intelligence. He had been assigned to a desk job three years ago after sustaining a significant loss of information out in the field. The man had been killed in his home at 8pm last week and was suspected to be a failed burglary. Sherlock sat down on the floor in the living room and spread the photos from the case file out in front of him. The evidence that had currently been collected pointed to an attempted burglary gone wrong after the criminal had been surprised to find someone in the house and killed them before fleeing the scene. A simple open and shut case. Or was it? There was something Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. He collected Mycroft's laptop from his office, quickly bypassing the password protected log in. His brother should really be more creative with passwords, he thought. He soon got to work collecting his own information on the case.

The next two weeks passed in this manner. The wall of Sherlock's bedroom was soon plastered with evidence from the case and arrows directed between certain pieces of information. Mycroft entered the room to find his brother absorbed in a file on his laptop.

"I would appreciate you not stealing my stuff brother dear." He closed the laptop with a snap and took it from his brothers hands.

"You don't understand Mycroft. I'm so close to solving it."

"You don't have to solve it Sherlock. It's already been done." He had allowed this interest to go so far as it was keeping his brother busy and happy but now it was becoming an obsession. He was rambling constantly about what he had found, Mycroft only picking up on a few snippets of information.

"But it just doesn't add up. They say it was an attempted burglary but anyone who was trying to steal from Mr Paul Thompson, would have done their research. He had a top of the range security system and followed a very strict routine of when he left and entered his house. Anyone who was trying to steal would have watched him for a few days and known the perfect opportunity. Then there's the situation of nothing being stolen, but the desk drawer being open. If the man was interrupted he would have already taken something..."

Sherlock stopped and ran his hands through his messy curls. "Oh of course. How did I not see it before? It all links so beautifully."

"See what Sherlock?"

"The desk. Look at the desk." Sherlock ripped a picture off the wall. It was a picture of an open drawer.

"I don't understand Sherlock. It's just an empty drawer. Somebody confirmed he never left anything in it."

"Exactly. Why would this be the only drawer that was opened with none of the others touched? Look hard at the picture. You can see slight fingerprints on the bottom of the drawer. There's a secret compartment in there. The drawer is deep from the outside but shallow on the inside. The information from the case three years ago was hidden inside. Don't you see. He didn't loose the information after all. It was a ploy. A ploy to keep the information for himself and then sell it off to anyone he wanted. But a big job like this he would need an associate. Someone he could trust. Someone who would say that the drawer was empty because he had been in his flat so many times. His brother. It all fits. He works in the same department as him and would be easily suited to work with his brother. Perhaps it was his plan all along. That's why Paul Thompson had two glasses out on the side when CSI looked around. He knew the attacker and invited him in to his home. Paul was getting cold feet. We can see from his file that he'd spoken to his boss about resignation and in his wallet was a large sum of Swedish Krona. He was planning on moving away. But his brother found out and didn't want him backing out of the plan with all the money so he killed him and took the information for himself. I bet if you searched his house thoroughly now you would find the USB of information." Sherlock sped through this information like a bullet train. Speaking so fast, Mycroft wasn't even sure if he had breathed through the speech. He looked at his brother with admiration. He was using that big brain of his and come to an amazing conclusion.

"Well we better go put this information to good use." Mycroft exclaimed. "Grab your coat."

About five minutes later the brothers were in a cab and on the way to MI5 to speak with the man in charge of the case. When they arrived, Mycroft led them through the building and into his office where he summoned the lead investigator. Sherlock rambled off all this information again to the man sat in front of him. The investigators initial speculation was transformed through the speech to shock and realisation as all the odd clues linked back.

"So you guys better get off your arses and follow my information. Seeing as I'm more capable than you're whole squad." He finished obnoxiously. Mycroft hit his brother round the head.

"I'm sorry about my brother. He doesn't have a shut off valve between his head and his mouth. He can be very rude at times." Mycroft apologised glaring at his brother for his rudeness. About ten minutes later the investigator had left the room and the two brothers were ready to leave the office to head back to the flat.

On the way back Sherlock thought about what he had achieved. He absolutely loved solving the case. It gave him a purpose and something he really enjoyed. It even distracted him from the drugs surprisingly. This is what he wanted to do for his career. He would establish himself as someone the police would turn to when they were out of their depths which was always. He'd be the world's first consulting detective.

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	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The next four weeks were incredibly tough for Sherlock. After he had finished the case for Mycroft, work to fuel his mind was extremely limited causing him to fall into a deep wave of depression again. It made it more difficult as well to consider that Mycroft had to go back to work at the beginning of December. The older Holmes was not prepared to leave his brother on his own, especially considering his incredibly depressed state currently. Unfortunately this meant he had to take him to the office with him which was increasingly dull for his erratic brother. He had only been back at the office two days and already his brother was grating on his patience. Mycroft had not dared to approach the subject of the doctors appointment since the day he had come back from the party. However the length of his current state was causing mounting issues and it was time to broach the question again. Sherlock was barely eating, sleeping the majority of the time and doing little to entertain himself. Mycroft couldn't count how many times he had tried to engage his brother into doing something productive but it was obscenely difficult having a conversion with someone as responsive as a brick wall.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said to him. They were sat in his office and Sherlock was scribbling intently on a pad of paper. The force with which he was putting on the paper was causing a repetitive irritating sound.

"Hmm?" He responded glumly not looking up from the paper pad.

"I've booked an appointment for you after work. At the doctors." He said warily.

"Okay." Sherlock hadn't even lifted his head. His voice was cold and emotionless.

"I'm not entirely sure you're listening to me." Mycroft frowned.

Sherlock just shrugged. "Whatever you want." He said continuing to scribble.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and snatched the pen from his brothers hand causing him to finally lift his head up and look at the older Holmes.

"That's really annoying." He said dropping the pen in the drawer to his right hand side. "I said that I'm taking you to the doctors after work."

"There's nothing wrong with me." He said defensively.

"Its time you accepted that you need help. You said last month that you would go to the Doctors to get help."

"I was obviously still drunk that day." Sherlock said shrugging again.

"That implies there are more issues at stake, brother dear." Mycroft smirked. Sherlock glared at his older brother. "It'll help you and you're smart enough to know that at least."

Sherlock sighed. He knew that his brother wouldn't drop the subject now it had arisen once again. Despite what the communication between them suggested, he had thought about going to get help of his own accord. The long winded days that life was creating were unbearable for his overactive brain to cope with. It wanted mental stimulation and without the motivation he wouldn't get it. He had two options, back to a life of drugs or back to a life of clinical support. He knew which he'd rather choose but doubted his brother would approve. By the fact that his brother had already booked an appointment proved that he wouldn't accept no as a response.

"Fine then we'll go."

Mycroft smiled and leant across into his briefcase and chucked his teenager brother a PSP.

"What this? Positive reinforcement?" Sherlock mumbled, catching the games console. "Using me as a psychological experiment now?"

Mycroft smirked. "I cannot bear that scribbling anymore. I was keeping the games until things got terrible and that pen was causing me great distress."

Sherlock played the game all afternoon. He was getting very good at it with significant improvement the longer he played. However he soon reached a difficult level which consumed an hour of his time before the console was thrown across the room.

"For God's sake Sherlock! Do you have to be such a child about everything?" Mycroft said frustrated at being distracted from his work and the teenager's petulant behaviour.

"Shut up Mycroft." He said folding his arms and slumping back down on the leather sofa across the other side of the room. Mycroft just shut his laptop and collected the battered console throwing it on to his brothers lap. It wasn't beyond repair, but it was damaged enough to leave a mark. A metaphor perhaps for the destructor?

Later that day, the brothers set off once again to visit the doctor. Sherlock had barely said anything for the remainder of the afternoon, his mind lost in rumination of the appointment that evening. He didn't quite understand why his nerves were so on edge. He had experienced the exact same diagnosis before so was prepared for the information he would be provided with. Perhaps it was the knowledge that it was hard to accept there was something wrong with him. Something that made him abnormal. He had made so much effort in his early life to fit in and be normal. He didn't mind being unique but to be different to others meant you were the subject of ridicule and cruelty. It helped him to believe he was a sociopath as it distanced him from caring what other people thought. Still the problem existed of what he thought of himself.

Sherlock sat relatively patiently in the waiting room this time as he prepared himself to face the inevitable. They didn't have to wait very long as soon they were called in to speak with the doctor. Dr Hutchison had been Sherlock's GP since he came to London but was experienced and talented in his field so knew how to handle the stroppy teenager.

"Ah Mr Holmes, good to see you again." Dr Hutchison said cheerfully.

"I assume your talking to Mycroft as you wouldn't be pleased to see me as it indicates some sort of problem and therefore work for you." Sherlock said coldly.

"I see you haven't lost your sense of fun" the doctor said sarcastically gesturing for them to sit down. "So what seems to be the problem?"

Mycroft explained the situation. He delved into his brothers mental health history, as well as his current emotional state, picking up particularly on the violent outbursts and the reckless behaviour including his exploits on the balcony. Sherlock interrupted several times to make comments on how situations weren't of his making and how his brother was exaggerating. A quick glance out of the corner of his brothers eyes was enough to keep him quiet again though. Mycroft even explained in some detail of his brothers months of substance abuse much to the disgruntlement of his the younger Holmes. Once Mycroft had finished his narrative, there was silence. The Doctor was obviously absorbing all this information to make a judgement call for the best course of action. Eventually the medical professional spoke.

"You've had quite a rough time of it, haven't you? Your symptoms have seemed to got a lot worse over the past year and a half. Can you think of any reason for this alteration?"

Sherlock just shrugged. Mycroft instead explained how his brother has not been taking his medication nor visiting a therapist as advised. The link was incredibly obvious to Sherlock. When he was in his early teens and refused to take his medication, clear signs of relapse occurred. For example holding glass to a boys throat...

"I see. I think it's quite clear what the next stage is, don't you Sherlock?" The Doctor asked softly. Sherlock just nodded accepting his fate. "I understand it's difficult to accept these things but it's for the best we do, so we can improve and make ourselves better people." Sherlock just sat in silence again. The Doctor accepted this as thoughtfulness and continued. "You're substance abuse has put us in quite a difficult position as it means we can't put you on as strong medication as you would normally need as we have to avoid addictive substances. I am however going to prescribe some mood stabilisers. Unfortunately these won't treat day to day mood swings but it will reduce the hypomania and serious depressive states. Seeing as the drugs aren't as strong, you will be able to take them constantly and is recommended for a long period of time. Also it's extremely important to maintain a course of therapy. I can't force you to go but I shall give you sneak information and you can decide from there which you like the best." The Doctor finished.

Mycroft looked at his brother sympathetically. He looked so crushed by the weight of what was wrong with him. However this should help remove that pressure. He'll still have his ups and downs but they'll be less severe which was positive.

They left the surgery about ten minutes later. Collecting the medication on route home. The Doctor had explained how these types of pills can take immediate effect so will create a noticeable improvement within the first few hours. It was just a case of ensuring his brother maintained taking them twice a day.

The next two weeks were the most different to any others that Sherlock had spent at Mycroft's flat since his withdrawal. His brother was working a lot more now due to an increase in political tensions and other factors that were of no apparent interest to the younger Holmes. In his opinion the extra work Mycroft was collecting was just a way to be avoiding of his difficult younger brother. The stint of Sherlock going to the office with Mycroft hadn't lasted long. It was infuriating for Mycroft and boring for Sherlock, so he had allowed his younger brother to stay in the flat. Although he had allowed Sherlock to be at home on his own, he had very strict regulations to this new instalment of freedom which only increased the ever growing resentment Sherlock had towards his older brother. It was as if he was being treated as a young child who was not capable at looking after himself. It was maddening. The regulations included having the front door of the apartment locked and alarmed so the younger Holmes could not leave, Mycroft to be monitoring Sherlock's medication so he had no access to it as well as his younger brother trying to look for a job. Sherlock felt like a prisoner and made his dislike for his new supposed freedom quite clear.

"I hate you! You're treating me like a prisoner." Sherlock yelled at his brother on one of these occasions. Despite the medications reducing his spiking mood swings, the mood drifts still existed. These were just factors of his personality that would never shift.

"You do love to be dramatic. You are quite clearly not a prisoner either. You are free to go whenever you want." Mycroft responded. He was quite happy to say this as he knew his brother was not prepared to leave just yet. He had not gained enough to benefit from leaving.

"You're always treating me like a child and I'm not Mycroft! I'll be 20 next year and you act as if I'm still your 5 year old baby brother."

"I'll stop treating like a child when you stop acting like one. When you are capable of looking after yourself properly then you'll be an adult. As it stands however you don't sleep as you should, you forget to eat and don't socialise with anybody. Does that sound like somebody who is no longer a teenager next year? Because I don't believe it does."

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft reached into his briefcase and pulled out his brothers medication and placed them onto the counter.

"You take those properly of your own accord and that will prove to me that I can give you more freedom."

"Whatever." Sherlock said. However he picked up the box and stuffed it into his hoodie pocket. He had accepted the deal.

The next week was a whirlwind of inconsistent behaviour. It was obvious that although Sherlock had accepted the deal in a very nonchalant manner, he was clearly finding it more difficult to uphold than he originally believed. Two of the seven days had been extremely difficult as the teenager had apparently forgotten to take the medication causing a manic episode so unexpected that several experiments had been conducted with a result of the fire engine being called out to rescue the kitchen. Sherlock didn't even bother to apologise and just plainly stated that it was an improvement on the bleak flat. Mycroft on the other hand was furious and banned all science equipment from the flat until Christmas. This had caused a mass argument within the household and an added furthered resentment towards his older brothers behaviour.

As the end of the week approached, Sherlock was much more relaxed as he had been taking his medication correctly and his behaviour had improved once again. But he was still bored a fair amount of the time. The medication may improve things emotionally for him, but the mental stimulation was not such as could be provided by the drugs he so desperately craved. Even after about two months sober, not a day passed where he didn't desire them. He had tried to distract himself from such behaviour by expanding his mind palace that he had developed all those months ago. He would loose himself in this palace for hours, creating a maze of rooms and storage locations for the impressive knowledge that he had absorbed. He was engrossed in this mental map when Mycroft knocked on the door to his room that evening. He had been considering the achievements of his younger brother and was fully prepared to recognise his hard work with what his brother desperately deserved.

"Hey Sherlock you awake?"

"Yes but I'm busy so get to your point." Sherlock said. He was lying on his back on the bed with his eyes firmly shut.

"I was going to praise you but I'm starting to change my mind." He said reaching for the door handle. He heard Sherlock shift on the bed behind him.

"Go on." Sherlock said sitting up and leaning against the wall. Mycroft crossed the room and sat himself next to his younger sibling.

"I've thought long and hard about how to prove how proud I am of how far you've come over the past couple of months. From when I received that panicked phone call to now where we can sit and have a civilised conversation." Mycroft shot a sideways glance to see how his brother was reacting. He was keen to express his appreciation of his brothers hard work. "So this is for you."

Mycroft placed a plain silver key into Sherlock's palm, who looked at it with a slight smile on his face.

"I can revoke this however if I deem it necessary." He added sternly.

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock smirked.

"I'm serious Sherlock. You've done very well but it doesn't mean you can backtrack now. Do you understand the importance of what I'm saying?" Mycroft threatened.

"Yeah sure." Sherlock said slightly distracted. He signalled the end of this conversation by lying back down on the bed and shutting his eyes. Any conversation between the Holmes brothers had been about this sort of length recently. Mycroft's job was causing him a considerable amount of stress and along with the possibility of advancement in his career, he had little time for brotherly conversation. Although in Sherlock's opinion it wasn't considered as abandonment. He considered that night what Mycroft had offered him and how he had the opportunity now to see how far he could push the line to gain the most out of the freedom Mycroft had allowed him. Tomorrow he would use his freedom to its full extent to roam the city of London as his first mini stage of the experiment. It would be the 22nd December tomorrow and following that they would be heading back home to the family estate for Christmas. So he would have to put his plan back into action properly on his return. Once again it was not of the younger Holmes making to go home for Christmas especially considering his difficult year, he would have to make up some excuse for what he had been spending his last 12 months doing that had kept him so busy. Of course his parents knew nothing of his adventures in wonderland that had been keeping him so occupied. It was beneficial that he was a superb liar and would be convincing to his parents who cared only if he had made a success or a failure of himself. Either of which would set the record for the families current social status. He settled back into his mind palace to forget about the upcoming family reunion before subconsciously drifting off to sleep.

 **I struggled with writing this chapter for some reason. Writer's block maybe?**

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	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Sherlock awoke early with excitement the next day. His mind was filled with the opportunity that today would provide. He could get back to exploring London, breath in the city air once again for an adventure that will be entirely his own. He loved to spend time on his own and felt no need for the company that other people provided. The time to explore on his own would also give a perfect opportunity to insert some knowledge into his mind palace. He wanted to know more about the streets of London than anybody else. To know the best places to bolt to, the quickest shortcuts and anything else that would prove useful. He had wasted the opportunity of the times spent living on the streets to expand this knowledge. His sober mind would be able to compute things to memory now however.

Sherlock headed to the kitchen to get some water. He took his morning tablet, stuffing the packet back into the pocket of his hoodie and prepared himself for his day ahead, sitting down at the breakfast bar with some toast. He closed his eyes as he did so, prepared his mind palace for space to store map references to memorise his favourite city in the world. He also considered ways he could push the boundaries of his freedom. He knew his brother wouldn't be home until late tonight which would give him plenty of time on his own in the city as well as possibly the chance to enjoy a couple of drinks in a bar. Potentially even to bring some back to the flat to pack with him that would help him get through the time at the family home. He sensed so much familiarity to last year, his family were ironically the cause of so much stress and desire for drugs. He let the latest thought of drugs sink into the back of his mind once again.

The first thing he would do today however would be to swing by Scotland Yard and speak to Lestrade. If he was keen to make his way in the world as a consulting detective, he needed to create allies of people who required his services and Lestrade was the perfect place to start. Mycroft held a lot of doubt in his mind towards Sherlock's "made up career choice" and was not keen to encourage what he thought was a school boys fantasy. He instead tried to recruit him into a more political based job environment which the younger Holmes had bluntly refused. He had no desire to be compared further to Mycroft and he had always considered what his brother did to be insanely boring. It would not engage his mind enough and he didn't care about the money or the power. It would not motivate him like it did for his brother

Mycroft arrived in the kitchen not long after Sherlock who set his deductive powers to work on his older brother's early morning stare.

"You were up late last night I perceive. Although the bags under your eyes amount for several difficult nights sleep, the stubble around your face proves for a slightly later bed routine and has effected your rise this morning. I can see you were working until late last night as your hand still has traces of ink from the fountain pen you treasure so much. Obviously not enough time to wash it of before you slept and forgotten about this morning..." Sherlock rambled in one long breath before being cut across.

"Stop it Sherlock. I'm not in the mood." Mycroft said irritably. His brother had failed to mention the reason he had been working late. He imagined it to because he failed to pick up on it. Sherlock was perfectly capable at deducing others but when it came to reading emotions, he was particularly oblivious. It was not because he had excessive amounts to do last night that meant he slept late. It was more because he couldn't sleep due to anxiousness about his brother's first day back into the real world and what he would find when he returned home at the end of the day that kept him up until the early hours. He set himself to work making himself a coffee in silence. Sherlock raised himself from his seat and set off back to his room, frustrated at his brother's tiredness.

"So what have you got planned for today?" Mycroft asked as his younger brother started to walk away. The older Holmes felt bad for his rudeness and was making a fresh attempt at conversation. The question however did have an ulterior motive. Sherlock had been prepared for this question as he knew his brother would become overbearing in the face of his freedom.

He shrugged. "Not quite sure yet. We'll see where the mood takes me." This was his first test at pushing the boundaries. He would see if he could get away with not telling his brother what he planned on doing, keeping something of his life a secret. Mycroft hesitated. He knew his brother was omitting certain truths but didn't want to push him too far, so he left it for the moment. He would see if he could get more information out of him later. Sherlock smirked at his brother's silence as if basking in his victory.

It was now about half past 8 and Mycroft was preparing himself for setting off for work whilst Sherlock was scavenging around in his room for cash. He soon admitted defeat and headed to find Mycroft. He knocked on his brothers office door with unusual politeness. He feigned this kind, polite behaviour sometimes in order to gain things that he wanted. Mycroft looked up from where he was bending over his laptop to look at his brother.

"Mycroft" He smiled sweetly. "Can I borrow some cash? I can't find my money anywhere. I promise I'll pay you back."

Mycroft just smirked. His brother was a brilliant actor, acclaimed at using his skills to get what he wanted. It however was never as effective with him. "You know that doesn't work on me Sherlock."

He just frowned in response. "Seriously though. What if I need money for a cab?" Sherlock replied dropping the act for his usual harsh attitude.

Mycroft sighed and thrust a twenty pound note into his brothers hand. "That's all your getting." He said grabbing his laptop and heading out of his office, he needed to get going. He paused when he reached the door and turned towards Sherlock who had followed him out of the room. He placed a hand on Sherlock's upper arm and looked at him as if to say something, he paused, before turning and leaving the flat without uttering another word.

Sherlock left the penthouse about 15 minutes later and headed straight for Scotland Yard. It would take him a while to cross town so he had brought his phone and some headphones to listen to some music on the way. He put on some classical music with strong emphasis on the violin. He loved the instrument. It was one of his biggest passions, for he had been grade 8 standard for about 6 years and had never got bored of the smooth melodic sounds that could be heard from it. It was a thing of beauty and he missed it's touch. The feeling of the wood against his collar bone and the bow in his hand. He hadn't played for about a year as his instrument was at his family home. Potentially he could bring it back to Mycroft's after Christmas, that would be one good thing about tomorrow. He would be reunited with his beloved violin. The music smothered him comfortingly as he used it for the background in storing his street map to his mind palace. After a while however, he returned to an area he was extremely familiar with. This was an area he could store to his palace without even being there. So he let his mind wander absently, composing pieces in his head almost walking past his destination when he arrived. Doubling back upon himself, he headed into the station.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." He stated boldly. The man behind the desk looked him up an down with apprehension.

"For what reason?" He questioned

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's judgemental nature.

"I'm his son." He lied, he wasn't quite sure why he went with this argument as it could be quickly denounced but now he had said it he had to keep up with it. He was sure he could have thought of something better to get to see the man straight away but the officers judgemental opinion made him want to show himself as above this man, so this story would have to do.

"I'll let him know you're here...Master Lestrade." It was clear from the man's expression though he was dubious to the younger man's authenticity.

Upstairs in the office, Lestrade's phone rang. He had literally just sat himself down with a cup of coffee and sighed at never being allowed a moments peace. He checked the caller ID. It was the desk sergeant.

"Lestrade speaking."

"Good morning Sir. I have a young man here claiming to be your son."

Lestrade pulled a quizzical look. His son? He didn't have any children. His mind instantly flicked into precaution mode assuming that this was some sort of ploy to cause trouble.

"Boy has dark curly hair. Pale complexion and defined cheekbones." The man continued reading into the DI's silence.

Lestrade just smiled. It was just like Sherlock to be so cryptic.

"Tell him that I'll be down in 5 minutes." He said putting down the phone. He quickly drank his coffee and headed down towards the entrance.

"Your dad will be down in about 5 minutes." The desk sergeant told Sherlock. The officer had a much friendlier attitude now he believed that Sherlock was related to a high raking official. Sherlock said nothing but took a seat on one of the metal chairs that leant against the wall. He was a bit shocked himself that his lie had been so effective. Lestrade must know who had asked for him in order for him to come to his aid. It wasn't long before the older man joined him in the entrance area. Sherlock smiled and Lestrade gestured for them to take a walk. They headed across the road into one of the small expanses of green that scattered across London. They took a seat on one of the benches

"Why did you say you were my son?" Greg questioned.

"How else would I have managed to see you today? Anyway you could pass for my father figure." Sherlock answered honestly. Lestrade just smirked at the younger man, shaking his head slightly. "Why come see me today then?"

Sherlock set off into an explanation of the past two months. The two men sat for about half an hour discussing Sherlock's detox, his health and his achievements on the murder case he investigated. Sherlock was very open when speaking with Lestrade. He felt he could trust the man as he listened more than his own father ever had. He felt safe with him as if he was the father he had missed out on.

"You've come so far Sherlock. I'm incredibly proud of what you've become." Lestrade said putting a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The younger man tensed but didn't attempt to shun away from the affection. "Do you remember that offer I made a while ago? In regards to helping out with some cases?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up. He nodded.

"Well I'll do you a deal. You stay clean and keep going with your proper medication then I'll let you in on some cases. You can further your career as a consulting detective."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He was speechless at the offer. He didn't have to respond however as Lestrade understood.

They headed back up towards the station where Lestrade hugged the young Holmes. Sherlock awkwardly reciprocated the hug. "Just wait here okay? We'll go get some lunch and I can show you a couple of cases we are struggling on to start you off with." Lestrade said to the younger man. He nodded in response and waiting uncharacteristically patiently for Lestrade to return. The DI took him to a local gastro pub for lunch, pulling out a cigarette to smoke on the walk down. Sherlock looked in adoration at the cigarette. Mycroft had binned all of his so he had not had one in the last few months. Lestrade noticed the expression on the teenagers face and pulled one out of the packet and gave it to the younger man. He had already accepted the leap forward that the teenager had made and they could keep this their little secret. Sherlock breathed the smoke in with pleasure and enjoyed the relief that the toxins gave him. It was just enough to keep him happy.

When they arrived Lestrade ordered them an omelette each. He changed Sherlock's request to the waitress from a cider to a glass of lemonade, giving him a reproachful look as he did so. As lunch progressed Lestrade showed a couple of cases files to Sherlock on recent thefts and violence cases that had recently cropped up. The younger Holmes absorbed all the information the case files provided putting a new light onto the situations. The new evidence and theories that Sherlock had provided could probably help the DI get these cases wrapped up by the end of the day. He was extremely impressed.

"You've definitely proved yourself worthy Sherlock. I'll bring another case round to you soon or you can drop by and see what's available."

"I'll stop by in the new year." Sherlock stated. About five minutes later the two men said their goodbyes and parted ways.

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	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

The afternoon continued just as Sherlock initially planned it. He walked around the streets of London from Belgravia, to the Isle of Dogs to Soho. He caught the underground a couple of times as he was finding it took too long to walk to some places but it was only his first trip out to gather basic information, he could add more details to his mental map later on. The sky was starting to darken as evening began to set in across the metropolis. He had a couple more hours before it was necessary to be back at the flat so he aimed to enjoy the time he had left. He headed towards Marylebone as his next exploration, stopping at a bar on route to grab himself a drink. The bar was a typical London setting of old fashioned styling with contrasting modern hints. He flashed his ID at the bouncer and went inside, grabbing himself a drink at the counter before heading over towards a booth to watch his surroundings. He sat and people watched for about half an hour. He used this time to sharpen his deductions skills, picking up important points that would be valid information if he had to suspect one of these people as a criminal. He knew how strongly his skills would be of use as a detective, he just had to ensure he separated himself from any emotion that might intrude with his ability to work. He would have to start focusing himself on his emotional separation once again.

He bought himself another drink which he downed pretty much in one before heading back out to the road outside where he breathed in the night air. A few drops of rain landed on his face, it was cool and refreshing. The rain drops were a realisation that he was back in the open air on his own again. It had felt like a lifetime since he had stood in the cool rain. Today had been long time coming but was necessary to bring him back to earth to realise how far he had come and what he had ahead. He turned right from the road and headed down a more secluded pathway that would lead him back towards the flat. He had spent too long in the bar and should head back. The pathway was quiet and all he could hear was the pounding of the rain on the paving slabs as the drops became heavier and more frequent. It was the closest you could get to silence in the capital. The further he walked the more the silence turned into eeriness. The pathway split into two and Sherlock walked down the narrower of the two lanes. The dark nights sky creating a blackness upon the alleyway. There were steps sounding from behind him, he looked over his shoulder but saw nobody. He was wary as he walked further into the dark alleyway.

Suddenly something heavy hit the back of his head knocking him forward onto his stomach. He had instinctively put his hands out to protect his fall and could feel the skin on his palms shredded from the impact. His cheek had also hit the ground and he lifted his hand to feel the blood dripping from the fresh cut. Stars started forming in front of his eyes as he tried to raise himself off the ground. His knees and arms felt bruised as he put pressure on them. As he started to lift himself up, somebody grabbed him on his hood and pulled him into a small offcut off the alleyway. Another person grabbed his ankles and lifted him before the two people threw him down against a brick wall corner. He couldn't fight back as everything had been knocked from him due to the unexpected fall.

He managed to pull himself up to a standing position by grabbing the wall to give him support. He leant his head back into the corner as he stood on his feet before looking into the eyes of his attackers.

"Long time no see, Sherlock." Lex said to him viciously. He looked rough. His eyes were red and his hair wasn't it's usual tidy style but instead slightly greasy. His normally sophisticated clothing was creased and ripped in some places. Appearing out of the shadows next to him was Mark with a similar sort of appearance to his accomplice. However that was the unusual for him. The thing that concerned Sherlock the most currently about the pair was their shear size and weight in comparison to himself as well as the venomous look in their eyes.

"You look well mate." Mark said to him. "We've heard from Jackson how you're coping without the drugs." This was said with vindictiveness.

"Yes I am well. I'm obviously doing a lot better than you two and your bitterness is coming through for that." Sherlock replied. This was not the time for back chat but his temper was getting the better of him.

"Think our bitterness is because we're on drugs and your not? No. Its from how you ruined our lives." Lex said aggressively. They encroached closer on Sherlock pinning him into the wall. "You led the police to us and had me arrested. While you get off scot free, I get kicked out of university, disowned by my parents and my clients think I'm an unreliable dealer. Do you know what that's done to me?"

"Yes. Your girlfriend has left you also thinking you're a bad person, she let you know she was pregnant but lost the baby from the stress. That's why you hold such a big chip on your shoulder. You got depressed and turned to drugs yourself." Sherlock deduced. He couldn't stop himself from spilling all this information out. Lex' fist made contact with his jaw causing the back of his head to smack into the brick wall behind him. Mark turned on him now.

"You deserve what you're going to get tonight Holmes. You almost killed me when you attacked me that night with the pan. They took me to hospital, permanent brain damage they said. Then sent me to rehab as they realised my drug habits. All because of YOU." Mark said pushing him in the chest.

The two boys grabbed his wrists and pushed him down onto the ground, the cold rain pounding heavily down now. Tears were forming in his eyes from the pain it was causing him. He tried to distance himself from the hurt but couldn't manage it. They pulled up his hoodie to reveal his bare chest and proceeded to stamp with their boots. He knew his ribs would break any second. They rolled him over and pulled him up by his hair. As he was raised to his feet, the packet of medication fell from his hoodie pocket. The two boys pushed him against the wall before pausing and picking up the small rectangular box. Sherlock realised what was happening and despite his body's protest, leant forward to take the box from Lex's hand. Mark kneed him causing him to crumple to the floor before he pulled himself back up to his feet.

"Look at this Mark, looks like he's not drug free after all." Lex laughed. "...for bipolar disorder it says here. Oh we've caught ourselves a psycho."

Mark joined in to laugh with him. Taking the packet from his friend and opening it.

"Stop it." Sherlock managed to utter clutching his stomach.

"Oh no I think we'll keep these. I'm sure we can sell these to someone who needs them less. More interested to see what will happen to you though." He said smirking. "Start hallucinating will you? Have a mental breakdown?" Lex said.

The two attackers were tormenting him now, gone past physical pain to psychological embarrassment.

"Why don't we treat him how psychos should be treated then, eh Lex? You know back in the good old days."

"Oh yeah and how's that?"

"Perfect weather for an ice cold bath isn't it? We'll sort that out and ship him off to the asylum."

The boys reacted quickly, pinning his hands to the wall and pulling at his trousers to try and drop them. He struggled against the boys and tried to kick to release them off him. They pulled the jeans to his hips before stopping as a crashing noise issued from behind them.

"Come on mate. Let's get out of here." Mark said. He punched Sherlock in the stomach one last time causing him to fall to the ground once more.

"Here you go mate." Lex was crouched down to his height "Let's see how long you can resist this now you haven't got your loony pills." He threw a small bag of cocaine and a syringe onto Sherlock's lap. "Welcome back to the rest of your life." He said before the two ran off leaving him on the ground in the alleyway.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet, the drugs clasped in his hand. He ached all over and he dared not think about how his face looked, nor how he would feel in the morning. All he could think about now is how he would cope tomorrow without his meds. His eyes flickered to the drugs and paraphernalia in his hand. It was the first time he had it close to him for a long time. It was wrong how much he wanted it, and unfortunately it was becoming necessary the more the pain sunk in. The pair had known what they were doing by beating him to a pulp and then giving him what would make him forget the pain but also cause him to fall back into addiction as the two of them had done. They wanted him to sink back down to their level in order for his life to be ruled by drugs once more. He couldn't let that happen but on the other hand he couldn't resist what would help him to no longer suffer.

He had to get back to the flat soon otherwise Mycroft would be back he stumbled out of the alleyway and hailed a cab to take him as close as possible to the flat as he didn't have enough money to take him the whole way. The taxi driver gave him a few shifty looks on route but didn't say anything. He managed to get about ten minutes away before he paid up and walked the rest of the journey. He staggered into the apartment block and made his way up to the flat. It was empty when he arrived and he caught a view of himself in the full length mirror by the door. He looked terrible with blood dripping down his face and a bruise forming across the top of his right eye. He tore himself away from his reflection and picked up some lemon juice and a spoon from the kitchen before heading to his room and rummaging around for his lighter. He found one in the drawer beside his bed and rushed to set up the paraphernalia that he had been given. It didn't take him long as the muscle memory in his fingers set themselves to work to fill the syringe. He could hear the door of the flat unlock as he injected the drugs. The flow of the substance that ran through his veins made him forget about the pain and he questioned why he ever gave it up. The door to his room opened just as he had climbed into bed pretending to be asleep. Mycroft entered the room quietly and knelt on the floor next to the bed and ran his hands through his brothers hair who continued to pretend to be asleep clutching the syringe in his hand under the covers.

"Good night Sherlock. I'm very proud of you." Mycroft whispered before leaving the room. As the door shut, Sherlock sat upright in bed and put his head into his hands. He felt terrible about how Mycroft would feel if he found out. He instantly regretted his decision.

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	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

When he awoke the next morning his head was killing him. The morning daylight was shining strongly through his glass balcony door reflecting onto his phone. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes with his forefinger and thumb he crossed his room and headed into the bathroom down the hall, stumbling slightly as his crash was wearing off. He was attempting to make as little noise as possible. He didn't want his brother to know he was awake but it was also for his own benefit to reduce the pounding in his head from the noises. Looking in the mirror, he almost collapsed with shock. One half of his face was covered with congealed blood whilst the other half was a contrast of pale skin and a dark bruise underneath his eyebrow. He looked worse than last night but now with added dark shadows under his eyes from the cocaine crash as if he was a modern day Phantom of the Opera. He climbed into the shower and drenched his face with water, rubbing hard to remove the blood whilst ignoring the stinging as it got into the cuts. He ran his hands through his hair which felt sticky with blood and his head incredibly bruised. Looking down at his body he saw he was more black and blue than his normally pale skin colour. The pair of attackers had certainly achieved what they set out to do. It took him about an hour to clean himself up to an acceptable standard. His body was still covered in bruises and a new track mark was set in his arm but he normally wore long sleeved clothes and jeans so he should be okay until they faded. His face still had the bruise and the dark circles but without the blood his face was a lot less menacing. Most of the blood had come from cuts on his head but there were a few small lacerations across his face that would hopefully heal relatively quickly. He still looked pretty rough however.

Sherlock went to the kitchen and swallowed a couple of painkillers to help him with his suffering. He could hear Mycroft stirring in the bedroom and quickly replaced them back in the cabinet. His main problem today would be to go through his withdrawal whilst getting through the majority of Mycroft's question about his cuts and bruises with sufficient lies. He couldn't let his brother know what had actually happened just after he had gained his trust and respect to give him his own freedom. He would have to keep the events of last night to himself, even the fact of no longer having his medication would be kept quiet as if he requested more now when he should have 1 months supply Mycroft would get suspicious. He collapsed on to the sofa as his brother entered the room and heard Mycroft wandering around behind him in the kitchen getting some breakfast. He tried to drown own the loud sounds but it was useless.

"You were in surprisingly early last night. I thought you would go out and never come back." Mycroft laughed.

"Yes but I was tired." He said bluntly sounding very defensive.

"Alright don't bite my head off! Have you had any breakfast yet?" Mycroft questioned.

"No I'm not hungry thanks." He hadn't even thought about food despite not eating since yesterday lunchtime. His withdrawal was messing with his head and he either had to get more drugs to tackle that or fight his way through it. It wouldn't be like the detox he experienced before but it would still be pretty bad as his body had a small dose of what it had been desiring for the past weeks.

"You should eat more regularly! But I suppose I can make sure you eat tonight at least. There will be plenty of food at dinner."

"Why? Where are we going?" Sherlock asked bemused. He still had his back to his brother and was looking at his phone on his lap.

"You can't tell me you've forgotten? We're going back home this morning. For Christmas, remember? The annual Christmas party is being held tonight."

Sherlock groaned. He had completely forgotten. All normality wiped from his mind after last night's events.

"You're going whether you like it or not so don't bother complaining. Mother and Father will be so pleased to see you again."

"What a joke." He scoffed. "Father is never pleased to see me. I'm a disappointment to him and I just increase that every time I appear in front of him." Sherlock said bitterly.

"He does love you though Sherlock." His brother reasoned.

"Well he has a funny way of showing it." Sherlock replied. Mycroft sat down on the sofa next to him.

"Well to be honest you don't make it easy for yourself, do you?" He joked. "Oh my God what happened to your face?"

Sherlock had just looked up and his brother had seen the cuts and bruises covering his face. He reached to touch the cuts but Sherlock pulled away.

"I tripped on the pavement and smashed my face into the ground yesterday. Its nothing." He lied. Mycroft looked sceptical however.

"It looks like somebody punched you. You haven't been getting yourself in to trouble again have you?" He said cautiously.

"No just leave it okay. I was just careless." Sherlock said angrily. His temper was rising from the combination of lack of drugs and lack of medication. Mycroft continued to look suspicious however but didn't say anything further about it.

"Seeing as you forgot we are going. I guess it means that you haven't packed." He said. Sherlock just shook his head. "Go on then, we've got to get going in the next few hours."

Sherlock headed off to his room to gather up some bits and pieces. Mycroft watched him walk away with concern. There was something he was hiding from him but he couldn't piece together everything yet. He would have to wait it out to gather more information.

Sherlock collected a few items of clothing and necessities and packed a bag to take with him. Once again he was reminded of a sense of familiarity of last year's excursions to the family estate. He sat down on his unmade bed and reached under his pillow for his pyjamas feeling a prick on his finger causing him to pull his hand away.

"Ouch." He said under his breath. He reached back under the pillow and pulled out the syringe that had pricked him. He sat looking longingly at it for a while before coming upon a decision to place it into a small box and hide it away in his drawer. It was a difficult decision but one which should help him in the long run. He bounced his foot up and down on the ground. He couldn't keep himself still as a manic episode started to develop. His mind was racing and he wished he had something to stop the feeling but there was nothing around to help him. He started pacing the room trying to wear of some energy before grabbing his key and heading to the door.

"Where you going?" Mycroft asked.

"Just popping out for a bit." Sherlock replied as he grasped the handle of the front door of the flat.

"No you can't, we need to go in a bit."

Sherlock turned on his heel to face his brother. "I just need to get out for a minute, okay?"

"But why the urgency?"

"Why all the questions?" He said defensively.

"Sherlock just calm down its fine. What's got you so worked up?"

"I just need some fresh air."

"I'll unlock the balcony and you can get some fresh air there."

Sherlock sulked as his brother walked away. He had run out of arguments and went out on to the balcony once it was unlocked. He peered over the edge and looked at the streets below with the traffic going past. His mind swimming with thoughts. He thought about how different these people's lives were, how minor their worries probably were. He wished he could just be normal like other people and have such small issues instead of having the complexity to be Sherlock Holmes everyday. It was exhausting.

The doorbell rang inside and Mycroft opened the door to greet the family chauffeur and called for Sherlock to come and grab his belongings. He went inside as slowly as possible and shook the hand of the elderly gentleman in the doorway.

"Master Holmes. Always a pleasure." Tom smiled at him softly. He had always been a kind soul and was a very respectful person, liked by all. Sherlock envied such capability to possess such skills. To have a mind so placid compared to his which was like an engine racing out of control. He wondered what it must be like. It must be so boring though, he reasoned, and quickly went off the idea. He collected his bag from his room, taking one final look around before pulling the door shut behind him. They headed out of the flat and down to the underground car park where the Rolls Royce was waiting expectantly for them. Tom opened the door for the Holmes boys to let them in before driving them off to Oxford. The journey took an hour and a half and Sherlock attempted to sleep most of the way. His mind wouldn't turn off though so he just sat struggling to keep his mind at bay. Mycroft kept talking to him but he was barely listening, the words just like background static to his ever racing thoughts.

The journey felt like it lasted forever for Sherlock but eventually the car pulled into the gates of the Holmes estate. The driveway was long and gravelled with trees and expanses of green surrounding either side. You could barely see the massive brick wall that surrounded the property as the land was so wide. Trees and beauty covered the landscape. It was indeed a stunning plot. The manor house appeared in the distance with its tall turrets and impressive build. There was a large gravel area outside the massive wooden front door which the car pulled up in. The garages were to the left off the house whilst to the right some stables were situated. Tom came round and opened the doors for the brothers where they were greeted by the family butler, Amesbury. Amesbury walked the brothers into the family home taking their bags and depositing them in the entrance hall. Mycroft was a picture of grace and sophisticated in the environment with his Prada suit and Barker shoes and swept sleek hair. Sherlock was an oxymoron to the place with his Levi jeans, Vans and his staple black hoodie. The way he was stood also portrayed awkwardness in his environment. Amesbury led them through to the drawing room where they sat and waited in silence for the arrival of Mr and Mrs Holmes. The butler was dismissed to help with preparation for this evening's events. The drawing room was very old fashioned but well kept. It had a billiards table down the far end and brown leather sofas situated at the other where the two brothers were stood. The room was furnished in dark oak with contrasts of emerald that created wealth in surroundings just by decoration.

"Mycroft darling how wonderful to see you." Mrs Eliza Holmes said kissing her eldest son on the cheek as she entered the room. Mycroft smiled back and they exchanged a brief hug. She turned to her youngest son and smiled at him also. "My boy, you look...your usual self." Kissing him on the forehead she looked him up and down with slight dissatisfaction on her face. Her eyes lingering on the bruise on his face with disgust. Sherlock just frowned at this treatment and dropped himself into the leather sofa as if to depart himself from the association.

"Hello old man." Mr Graham Holmes had entered the drawing room holding out his hand to shake his son's. "How are you keeping? Still thriving in government?"

"Very well Father. I believe I'm soon in line for a promotion too."

"That is fantastic news son. You have made such a success of yourself. You are a true Holmes man." Mr Holmes stated loudly in order for his younger son to hear. He turned to the boy on the sofa and pulled the same disappointed face as his wife. "I see you've been making good use of your life too."

"Your sarcasm is welcome Father."

"Well you look like you've been in a fight. One that you've lost of course. You've been causing hassle again I suppose. You'd better clean yourself up for tonight. We can't bear to have people see us associated with such a mess."

"You always seem to find the disappointment in me don't you. As if you look for the failures that you can point out in me."

"Well I don't need to look hard Sherlock. You don't help yourself." His father said harshly. Sherlock's eyes flickered to his brother at these last few words as he stood up and stared his Father in the eyes aggressively. His fists were balled in anger and his father had picked up on it. "Do not even think about it Sherlock. You let your temper get the better of you far too often and I will not stand for your behaviour in this house. You will hold yourself to a higher manner or you will not be associated with this family at all."

"Well maybe that's what I want! You've never been there for me anyway. Its like I'm not part of this family." Sherlock yelled back.

"Why can't you be more like your brother?" Graham said defiantly. This was the last straw for Sherlock who pulled a rude gesture to his father receiving a slap on the face in return. Sherlock reeled back in shock and stood silent.

"Do not treat me or this family in that manner. Ever." Graham Holmes looked angry, more than his two sons had ever seen before. "I've put up with your rubbish for far too long. You will do as I say Sherlock or else." He raised his hand again and the teenager just stepped back bowing his head in surrender. Mr Holmes dropped his hand and turned out the room, his wife taking his arm and nodding at Mycroft on the way out. Mycroft had watched the whole ordeal not uttering a word so when he went to comfort his brother he was not surprised when he was shunned away and his brother left him alone in the drawing room. This was not a good start to the holidays.

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	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The rest of the day was a complete blur to Sherlock, with time passing in a unquantifiable way. His head pounded with the withdrawal and his body longed for the sweet release that cocaine could provide. All the time his head was combating an internal war against desire and rationality. He didn't feel hungry, he didn't feel tired, he just felt the need to focus on the battle. Along with the internal feud that he was conducting, his mind also crossed upon the interaction between himself and his father that morning. He hadn't left his room all day as per the subordination caused by the comparison of him to the rest of his family. He had always known his Father preferred his brother to himself, as if Sherlock was an outsider incapable of being the same as the rest of them. But this morning proved that it wasn't just disappointment he saw in his son but also disgust. He was ashamed of who Sherlock was and it amazed him how much that had affected him. He desired for people to see him as something incredible, his powers of deductions either causing feelings of awe or annoyance but always portraying his superiority. However, in his father's presence he would always be inferior and Sherlock hated that. He hated the man for causing such belief that he wasn't as good as his brother. Its what divided them and caused such sibling rivalry. He had tried to prove over the years that he was just as capable but there was no reaction of pride that he showed in his older brother. Just mediocre responses or little support. Standing up to his father this morning had felt like he was winning back supremacy; only to realise he would never be as good as he wished to be, especially to that man. He just had to prove from here on out that he was better than anyone else. Better than he could ever be himself and he would cut out anything in his life that distracted from that. Including emotions, caring and sentiment and including the drugs. He will prove to his father that he was a greater man than Mycroft could ever be. Not for any appreciation from him but out of spite and for his own pride.

Someone knocked twice on the large oak door of his room before stepping inside. Mycroft was dressed in a smart three piece grey suit with a navy tie. His hair was elegantly slicked and his face had his usual haughty look that was permanently fixed upon the majority of the Holmes family. A smiled flickered briefly on his face as he entered before sitting down on the four poster bed. He looked at his younger brother with sympathy in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" He asked cautiously.

"I'm fine. Well I was until you showed up." Sherlock responded bluntly, turning his back on his older sibling to fiddle with some items on his desk. Mycroft just sighed in response.

"Why do you feel the need to act like the whole world is against you Sherlock? Perhaps if you opened up to the possibility of working with others and dropped this whole lone ranger act you would be able to associate with others easier."

"Why do I need others? I have myself and my knowledge. Why would I need anything else? This family has taught me how to cope on my own and it has served me fine for years. People try to interfere and that's where issues begin. If I was just left alone then confrontation wouldn't arise and I could achieve so much more."

"We just want to be there for you Sherlock. Mother and Father struggle to bond with you anymore because you make it so damn difficult."

"Oh that's rich! They should have tried for the first 19 years of my life, but suddenly it's my fault for being an antisocial pretentious arse hole because that's what they raised me to be. I should have seen that coming."

"I know they should have been more attentive to you but they're busy people Sherlock and I was there for you at least." Mycroft's temper was starting to rise. Only his younger brother could evoke such emotions out of him.

"I don't need you. I don't need anyone. I'm a high functioning sociopath. Do your research."

"Sociopath? Not this again. You may have slight tendencies that are similar to that diagnosis but they are all self inflicted. You try to be someone you're not. You hide behind a facade of emotionless detachment."

"You're one to talk about hiding behind facades." Sherlock retorted. His fists curled up into balls by his side as he stared out his older brother.

Mycroft stood up and crossed the room to his brother who stepped back instinctively dropping his guard.

"Do not cross me Sherlock. I have more influence than you care to realise. Now get dressed. Father expects you downstairs in 15 minutes to welcome the guests. You will be on your best behaviour tonight and do what is expected of you. Don't make me tell you again." He threatened before leaving the room, shutting the door with more force than usual. Sherlock stood staring at the door after his brother had departed, before deciding to do as he was told. He pulled a black Dolce and Gabbana suit and a dark purple Moss Bros shirt from his wardrobe. He was used to wearing suits from being at a private school but had opted not to wear them since. He questioned his motives when he checked our his appearance in the mirror after changing. He looked good. There were no other words for it. The tailored frame of the suit hugged his skinny figure giving him a defined posture which was often hidden under his hoodie whilst the colour of the shirt was a dazzling contrast to his pale skin. He suddenly remembered Holmes. The suit he wore and his general health doing wonders for his appearance to create a much better looking version of himself. As Sherlock looked in the mirror, he was reminded more and more of his hallucination in the cell. The suit also helped his superiority complex as it gave the impression of a professional person. He smiled for the first time that day and set off downstairs to the find the rest of the family.

His parents and brother were awaiting his arrival in the study. Mycroft smirked slightly as he entered the room. It was unusual to see his brother back in a suit.

"Now you look like one of the family." His father said with no hint of emotion. That was the closest he got to being proud of the younger Holmes. The tension was still lingering from earlier on that day but it did not cross Sherlock's mind to apologise. It never did. He did not care what others thought of him and it was if the social side of his brain was undeveloped to know what to say and when. It reasoned why he spurted out deductions to annoyed listeners, caused fights and why he never created many friends. His understanding for knowledge was impeccable but his understanding of others was limited. He was a difficult person to get along with despite this anyway. However, Sherlock was prepared to make the effort this evening to prove a point. That he was better than his brother.

"The guests should be here any minute. Go to the entrance hall and welcome them will you boys." Mother said graciously.

"Yes Mother we'd be delighted to." Sherlock said in his synthetically polite manner. Mycroft was taken aback while their father raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise in the turnaround of his son's behaviour. The two brothers exited the room side by side, Sherlock mocking his brothers posture and walk to cause him irritation. The more Mycroft was irritated, the better he would look.

"Putting on weight again brother?" Sherlock questioned.

"Loosing it actually." Mycroft said through gritted teeth.

The butler was already in the hall when they arrived, elegantly holding a silver tray with tall champagne flutes on it. Sherlock edged forward to take one from the tray but it was pulled away immediately.

"Apologies Master Sherlock. I am under strict instructions that you are not to be allowed to consume any alcohol this evening." Amesbury explained.

"And who's instructions were these?" Sherlock said annoyed although he knew full well what the answer would be.

"Master Mycroft, sir." Amesbury replied. Sherlock turned to glare at his brother who just shrugged with a slight smile on his face. How dare he dictate what he was and wasn't allowed to do? This was Mycroft all over. A silver BMW pulled up outside the front entrance so Sherlock reluctantly went to stand next to his brother putting a forced smile on his face.

The guests arrived in their usual prompt manner with Sherlock adopting his best acting of politeness and friendliness. The guests lapped it up commenting on how much he had grown up since they saw him last year. He tended to wave away these comments to avoid any awkward conversation that he might slip up on. His manic phase was starting to rise again so his rambling speech could easily encourage him to say something without realising. About ten minutes into the guests arriving, a black Audi pulled up outside the Holmes residence and a man in his late twenties climbed out of the drivers door and was greeted by the butler on entrance. Sherlock turned to greet this man before doing a double take. He was dressed in a smart navy suit with shiny black shoes. His hair was a mousey brown and long enough to reach his ears.

"Anderson! What are you doing here?" Sherlock questioned, his face a picture of shock. Mycroft nudged him in the elbow as a sign to remain polite but Sherlock just ignored this, forgetting his facade that he had been maintaining.

"Oh I was invited." Anderson smiled.

"Philip. How wonderful to see you!" Graham Holmes exclaimed entering the hall. He reached out and grasped the younger man's hand firmly in a handshake. "How is your Father?"

"Well thank you. He's extremely disappointed he couldn't make this year's event but business needs must." Philip Anderson explained.

"I see you've already met my son Sherlock." He said nodding towards Sherlock. He gestured towards Mycroft with pride on his face. "This is my eldest. Mycroft. Mycroft, this is Philip. Son of Jeffrey Anderson."

Mycroft shook Philips hand politely. His father was a very old friend of Graham Holmes who came to almost every social event that the Holmes family threw. Sherlock knew he had a son but had never had any association with him. He never suspected it would be the same Anderson that works in the station that he had been arrested and held in so many times. The two had never got on well at all which had never been an issue until now. Sherlock had embarrassed the man by helping Lestrade out with the case with the green ladder as it overrode Anderson's suggestions on the case. Also Sherlock had caused a lot of trouble for him as a police officer, and was more than likely the reason he had taken the sidestep into forensic evidence in the last few months rather than up to Detective Inspector that he desired to be. It was not one of the younger Holmes finer moments as his rude and obnoxious attitude had got the better of him and made Anderson's policing career hell over the last year, altering his success rate and making him appear unworthy of the promotion he desired.

"Come through let's introduce you to everywhere. I'm sure there will be some great contacts here to help you career." Mr Holmes said to Anderson as they walked away to find the rest of the party that had arrived. Mycroft looked over at his younger brother who had gone silent. Mycroft wondered about what could possibly be going through his erratic mind. From what he knew, Sherlock had never had any association with this man.

"Shut up." Sherlock snapped.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking, it's annoying."

The arrival of the rest of the guests passed without incident and before long the two brothers were in the function room with the event in full swing. Due to the high turnout at the Christmas party, an expansive buffet of delicious food had been lain out across a long table for all to enjoy. It was more practical than a sit down formal meal. This suited Sherlock as it meant he could eat as little as he wanted and in his current erratic state he was too busy with talking and his distracted nature to think about food. His mind was racing with thoughts and ideas and he was making up massive lies to those he was talking to, in order to explain his year of absence. His father had been listening in to some of these conversation which meant the lie had to become more detailed. He had stated that he had spent most of his year helping the police solve cases that they were too incompetent to solve on their own. He had a lot of admiration from people for this revelation. However he was quickly becoming irritable with the excessive amount of times he had to repeat these lies and took the first opportunity to escape the room to sneak into the kitchen to cool off. He pulled a couple of ciders out of the fridge and downed them almost in one. A small feeling of relaxation sinking into him as he reached for another. He sat himself down on the cool floor and enjoyed the solitary quietness in comparison to the function room. He attempted to cool his racing thoughts but failed and his irritability increased as he wished there was something to help him. He hated what Lex and Mark had done to him. He had tried hard to work himself off the drugs and their spiteful nature had brought him back down to their level again with desperate desires to return back to the substance despite what he forced himself to believe. He made so many excuses to why he took the drugs last night but it all came down to the fact that he missed them. Any other argument, such as it being for pain relief, was just an excuse. He had tried so hard to prove he was better than Mycroft but it was all an act. His brother was smarter and more understanding of how other people worked. Sherlock was just an addict and that would all he would ever be. Whether it be addicted to drugs, alcohol or adrenaline filled adventures. Sherlock leant his head back on the wooden island behind him and reached with his foot to pull the fridge open. He grabbed the bottle of Grey Goose that stood on the shelf and swigged the vodka, gasping slightly as it hit the back of his throat before taking another gulp of the drink. He managed to consume three quarters of the bottle before staggering to his feet. His muscles ached still from the pounding he had received last night but he was feeling incredibly relaxed enough now that he was able to ignore this and his continuing manic phase. With this new confidence he swaggered back into the function room to interact more with the guests. His speech was rambled and slurred but it was still possible to deceive others due to his convincing lies and streams of knowledge he was portraying.

An hour miraculously passed without incident. By this time however Mycroft had acknowledged his brothers intoxicated state and had been keeping close watch on his behaviour. Despite a few rude comments, he was behaving relatively politely so he made the executive decision to keep a close eye on him before giving him a lecture later.

"My dear, would you be able to help me find my way to the bathroom?" an elderly relative had approached Mycroft whilst he was stood observing proceedings. He smiled at her.

"Of course I can." He took her arm and opted for one last glance at Sherlock. He was speaking very quickly to a couple of men about deductive reasoning. He should be fine for a couple of minutes he decided before helping the lady out of the room.

"...so that's the mistake the police make. They make a conclusion and then find the evidence to support it. Ignoring everything that doesn't fit." Sherlock rambled. He said this so quickly that it was impossible for anyone to imagine somebody's brain could move that fast.

"My son here has been helping the police with cases for the past year." Graham Holmes interjected. He had been standing within earshot and took the opportunity to show off what little he could of his younger son. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. If he had noticed he was drunk he failed to make any comment on it. This was a moment of pride, Sherlock acknowledged. He had achieved something.

"I have to intrude here I'm afraid." Philip Anderson said sharply. "I couldn't help overhearing but what your son is saying is not the truth."

Sherlock glared at Anderson but said nothing. His father looked at him with suspicion in his eyes.

"Please continue." He said cautiously.

"There is no doubt that young Mr Holmes has been to the station on many occasions. I mean no disrespect to yourself Graham when I say these things but I believe you deserve the truth." By this time a considerable crowd had gathered and we're listening to what Philip had to say.

"He doesn't know what he's saying." Sherlock cut in. His father's hand was still resting on his shoulder but with considerable force now.

"Sherlock Holmes is an obnoxious liar. He is not as he so tells a consultant to the police but someone who lacks respect for the police and the law. Your son Mr Holmes is a drug addict."

There were several dramatic gasps round the room and muttering began on this new gossip.

"What? Is this true Sherlock?" His father asked angrily pulling him round to face him. Sherlock said nothing but just shook his arm from his father's vice like grip.

"Just shut your face Anderson." Sherlock shouted.

"I'm sorry Sherlock but I feel your father should know the truth. He deserves that. Your son fell into a life of cocaine addiction, violence and living on the streets. He has been in custody more times this past year than out of it. He should probably know too Sherlock about the psychiatrist they had to pull in to help you with your mental disorder."

"STOP IT NOW." Sherlock's withdrawal and manic irritability that had been building over the last 24 hours exploded as he hurled himself at the older man knocking him to the ground and punching every inch of him he could reach. A knife that had fallen from the buffet table was lying close to Anderson's head which Sherlock grabbed and raised it to the other man's throat. He was lost in his outburst, even slightly aware of his actions as rage and recklessness had taken over him.

"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft screamed running towards him and pulling him off the older man and yanking the knife from his grip. He grabbed his brother's arms behind his back pulling him aggressively from the ground. Sherlock however was lashing out and managed to kick Anderson in the head knocking the man out cold. A small amount of blood making a pool on the floor. The guests just felt silent and stared as Sherlock was dragged out of the room.

 **So this is the longest chapter yet!**

 **Somebody asked ages ago about writing Anderson in, so here he is. In all his glory.**

 **I know Sherlock seems quite violent, but the nature of this condition makes people violent and you often see him in the series with violent outbursts. E.g. throwing someone out of a window several times. So it isn't that OOC and he is young and difficult.**

 **The story will continue soon.**

 **Please review and follow.**


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

"What the hell is the matter with you?" Mycroft shouted, shoving his brother hard in his chest causing him to stumble clumsily backwards. He had dragged him into the study and locked the door behind them. Mycroft was fuming at the boy's behaviour.

"He was telling Father everything. I couldn't let him continue." Sherlock said harshly, slightly slurring his words from his intoxication. He was pacing the room his hands pressed together with the tips of his fingers under his chin.

"You could have killed him Sherlock? Do you even care at all?"

"Will caring about him help him recover now?"

"Well no but..."

"Well I will continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock said coldly turning his head to face his brother.

"What has made you like this?" Mycroft said exasperated.

"Oh nothing made me like this. I made me." Sherlock said calmly.

A hard knocking sounded from the door. It was done with such force that he believed the door was going to cave in with the power that was being put upon it. Mycroft unlocked the door and got out the way just in time for Graham Holmes to push his way in to the room and grab Sherlock by his throat and slam him into the wall. A few books tumbled to the floor from the bookshelf next to him with the impact. Sherlock chocked, struggling to breathe, clutching at the tight fingers wrapped around his throat.

"You little shit, how dare you still associate yourself with us. You are a disgrace to me and my family. You are no son of mine." He yelled an inch from Sherlock's face. A few specks of spite landing on his cheek. Everything around him was fading into blackness as the oxygen was cut from his brain.

"FATHER!" Mycroft yelled. Graham dropped Sherlock to the floor who sat spluttering and clutching his bruised throat. His father just looked at him with disdain.

"You disgust me." He said with loathing to his son. "The police will be here soon, they're going to take you away Sherlock and I hope to never see you again." And with that he swept from the room. Mycroft took one last glance at his brother before he too abandoned him, locking the door on his way out. Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He had gone way too far this time. Mycroft could not go over the power of Father and Sherlock was trapped into the consequences of his actions. Every emotion had caught up with him from the past two days with nothing to steady him or calm him down, it was so overwhelming that all control was lost. He didn't care though. He had no remorse for his actions. He had never been more associated with the diagnosis of a sociopath until now where he didn't care about other people or their pain. He only cared about himself and the effect these actions may have. This could ruin everything for him. What was left for him? He had nowhere to live now Mycroft had abandoned him too and he had nothing to live for.

In the function room the commotion was dying down as the paramedics arrived and managed to bring Anderson back to consciousness. He was concussed and nauseous but there was no lasting damage. The situation could have been a lot worse however, and to be certain there were no other implications, they sent him off in the Ambulance to the nearest hospital. As he was taken away from the location, the police car arrived on site. Mycroft took his opportunity while he could to speak to the officers and paramedics together to plead for Sherlock's case. He explained his history and how it was so unlike him and it was a concern for his mental welfare rather than for any criminal intent. The right words were used to explain the situation in order to have his brother detained as an inpatient in a hospital rather than a criminal in a cell. He was unsure if his brother would ever forgive him for what he'd done but it was in his best interests. He had tried to reason with his father as to what he intended to do but the older Holmes was not interested and just insisted that he would be his problem if he wanted any association with the boy. He knew this would be best for Sherlock to get him the help he needed to turn his life around. He could obviously not be trusted to maintain his welfare on his own so it was up to him to take action. Mycroft led the police officer and the remaining paramedic to the study. He unlocked the door to reveal where Sherlock was stood looking out the window. The paramedic turned to Mycroft and said something that was barely audible, who nodded in response. The police officer stood blocking the door.

"Sherlock?" The paramedic said gently. Her face was kind and understanding. Her eyes bright and her smile welcoming. Her general appearance was incredibly gentle and reassuring.

Sherlock slowly turned his head to look at the paramedic before making a rude hand gesture and turning back to the wall. She encroached further into the room to make communication easier.

"Sherlock we're here to help you. Just come over here to me."

"No." He said harshly. "Don't patronise me, I know what you're trying to do. I'm not an idiot."

"Its okay Sherlock. We're not saying you're an idiot, we just want you to come with us."

"No. Leave me alone." He shouted, throwing a glass paperweight from the desk over to the wall behind the paramedic. It shattered like diamonds tumbling to the floor. The policeman took action now. He couldn't risk another injury, so he swept into the room and before he knew it pinned the young man to the floor putting handcuffs round his skinny wrists. He lifted him to his feet and walked him out of the study. Many people in the function room turned to stare and whisper as he passed. There was no reaction from his father as he was walked out of he mansion. He was walked not to the police car but to the back of the paramedics car. He was confused. This is not what he expect to be happening.

"I'll bring you down some things for you tomorrow. I'm sorry Sherlock." Mycroft said apologetically.

"What's happening Mycroft? Where are they..." Sherlock began before the car door was shut. Then it dawned on him what was happening. He struggled and attempted to get out the car, kicking the door with the flat of his foot. He knew this was not helping his situation as it made him appear less emotionally stable but he didn't care. He would rather go to jail than have to suffer the torment that he was going to go through.

"You need to calm yourself down Sherlock or I'll have to sedate you." The kind paramedic said. She had climbed into the passenger seat while the driver was talking with the police officer.

"This isn't necessary. You've got it all wrong. Just arrest me and get it over with." He said to her coldly.

"You're obviously in a lot of distress, please just remember we are here to help you."

"I don't need your help. I'm fine." He responded but it was no use. He was caught in a vicious circle that if he stated he was fine then he was in denial but if he accepted the help it was accepting there was something wrong. Once you got into this situation there was no way out and his brother knew that. He had created a feud between them that would not be easily resolved. He made one last massive attempt to get out by resting on his back and kicking the window with his heel. A prick in his neck caused him to react and try to sit up but the world quickly faded into blackness.

When he woke up he was lying in a hospital bed, his handcuffs had been removed but he was in an isolated room with a large glass window looking out on to a communal room with sofas and a desk. The room he was in had one chest of drawers, a desk and a bedside cabinet. It was clinically cold. It was obviously in London though as he could clearly see the skyline out of the other window in the room. He placed his feet onto the vinyl flooring feeling the coldness on the soles of his feet. Someone had taken his shoes. Again. He crossed the room to the door to find it locked. It wouldn't have taken a genius to deduce their reasons. He had already proved he didn't want to be here so they had to take precautionary measures to ensure he stayed. There was a glass of water by the side of his bed which he downed in one to reduce the feeling that the oncoming hangover was providing before climbing back onto the bed. He slept for about an hour before the unlocking of the door woke him. He sat himself up and looked at the nurse who entered. She was dressed in the usual medical uniform and looked to be the sort of person to permanently have a smile on her face. He hated her already.

"Oh I'm glad to see you're awake Sherlock. How are you feeling?" she asked in a sickly sweet voice. He ignored her and just crossed his arms as a sign of defensiveness.

"You must be wondering where you are my lovey."

"I know exactly where I am. I'm at St James Psychiatric Hospital. I've been here for approximately 10 hours judging by the light that's starting to rise from out the window. The room is private so obviously you believe I'm going to be here for a while especially noted since you've already bothered to remember my name. I think the question is why are you still here talking to me when you have some real mental people to see. Now fuck off." Sherlock said turning his back on the nurse's shocked face.

"Now young man, I will not have that sort of language in my presence. All I came to say was that your brother was here to see you. But I don't believe you deserve that treat."

"Oh trust me it's not a treat. I'd rather I didn't see him."

"I'll go get him then." The nurse smiled before leaving the room. He rolled his eyes and picked up his phone scrolling down the daily news articles. Boring. Everything was boring. He threw his phone onto the bed and sighed.

"Its nice to see you treat your possessions with so much pride" Mycroft said sarcastically. Sherlock just glared at him. He was wearing a smart jacket and trousers with a white shirt. He was carrying a black sports bag by his side which he put down by the chest of drawers in the hospital room.

"What the hell are you even doing here?" Sherlock said spitefully.

"I would have thought that was obvious brother dear. In bringing you some clothes. You might need them as you'll be here a while."

"And whys that?"

"Because this is where you need to be. You need to recover Sherlock. Everyone has demons and yours have been waiting for a very long time. It's about time they were tackled."

"Get out." Sherlock said coldly.

"Sherlock.."

"I SAID GET OUT." Sherlock yelled. His brother just sighed. The nurse came running into the room.

"I heard shouting is everything okay?"

"YOU CAN GET OUT AND ALL" Sherlock shouted again.

"Sherlock dear, why don't I go get you something to calm you down. It might help you sleep too. You seem quite agitated."

Sherlock groaned. "Is nobody listening to me?"

Mycroft nodded at the nurse who left the room. Sherlock sat down cross legged on the floor leaning his back against the radiator. The warmth drifting through his jacket to his back. Mycroft walked slowly over and sat down next to his younger brother.

"I'm sorry. I thought it was for the best. You can get better and you can find a way to move on with your life with the help from the people who know how." He put his arm around Sherlock who didn't resist initially and they sat in silence. The nurse returned leaving some tablets on the beside cabinet and nodding at Mycroft before leaving again. Sherlock didn't want to be here, it would slow him down and wasn't necessary. He didn't need their help, he could do this all by himself. He shook his brothers arm from around him and stood up.

"I want you to leave now." He said.

Mycroft picked himself up from the floor and walked round to the bedside cabinet. He deposited the pill and a glass of water into Sherlock's hands who swallowed it surprisingly compliantly.

"I'm just a phone call away if you need me."

"I won't need you." Sherlock said. His eyes were starting to droop so he climbed into bed and pulled he covers round him as his brother left closing the door gently behind him.

 **I hope you're all enjoying it!**

 **Please review. I want to know what you all think!**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

He was woken about 9 am on the first full day of his sectioning. The nurse from the previous day shook him gently on the shoulder, to which he just groaned in response and pulled the cover further over his head.

"Come on dear, you have a big day ahead of you." The nurse said cheerfully pulling back the curtains to reveal the London skyline.

"Its not a big day, it's just another boring day but stuck in a different hell hole." He replied arrogantly, his face still buried in the pillow.

"Be that as it may. I expect you up in ten minutes for breakfast. What would you like dear?" she continued cheerfully.

"I'm not hungry and stop calling me dear. It's annoying."

"Whatever you say dear." The nurse said obviously ignoring his last statement before departing the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

He rolled over onto his back looking at the ceiling before swinging his legs off the bed and put his dressing gown on over his clothes and walked over to the window. He was so bored already, he wished to be outside in the city below. He hadn't changed since last night as he had fallen asleep in the clothes he was wearing due to the powerful sedative effect of the drugs he was given. He picked up his phone from the beside cabinet, there was a text from Mycroft. He deleted it before even reading it. Mycroft doesn't text when he can call so it can't be that important. The nurse came back into the room to see him stood looking out the window.

"I'm glad to see you decided to arise." The nurse said placing the tray with porridge and orange juice down on the unmade bed. "Now come over here and eat this up." The nurse continued. Sherlock persisted to look out the window with no response. The nurse sighed and sat down in the chair at the desk. "I'm going to sit here until you eat it, so if you want to have your privacy back then I'd suggest you eat it now."

"I told you I'm not hungry." He said in annoyance.

"Your brother told us that you would say that."

"Of course he did." Sherlock muttered to himself. He lingered for another fifteen minutes. He hoped that if he waited long enough that the nurse would get bored and have to go off to complete other jobs. He was wrong.

"We don't want to have to force feed you Sherlock but we will if we have to." The nurse said after twenty minutes of this silent battle. He groaned with defeat and went and sat cross legged on his bed with as much sulky behaviour as he could muster. He took one spoonful of the porridge before dropping the spoon in the bowl with a loud clatter.

"Its cold." Sherlock complained, "and it's disgusting. Do you people not have any culinary skills?" He was being obscenely rude but he didn't care. Other people's emotions were becoming more and more irrelevant to him.

"Well who's fault is it that it's cold though, dear. If you had eaten it up as I told you to earlier it wouldn't be."

"I thought I told you to stop calling me dear" He sad angrily, throwing the spoon at her head. The nurse ducked in time and was less phased by the outburst than he thought she'd be. This obviously showed in his face.

"We are used to your type of behaviour on this ward so your outbursts don't surprise me, especially from what I've read of your history. I will however not tolerate it in my presence. You will be taught how to control your temper and any signs of violent behaviour will be treated very severely. Is this understood?"

"Yes" He murmured barely audibly.

"Good. Now eat your breakfast." She ordered.

Half an hour later the nurse left the room, with instructions for Sherlock to get changed to be introduced to his therapist who would be treating him during his stay. When she told him this the first thing that came through his mind was to conduct an experiment. How quickly could he deduce this new person and encourage him to leave his job. He smiled at his own devious nature. Rooting through the sports bag that Mycroft had left he pulled out a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He chose this purposefully to cover the track marks on his arms. He was aware that his brother had probably already informed them of his drug history but he didn't want to make it anymore obvious to them than was necessary. The nurse collected him about ten minutes later and brought him out of his room into the communal living area. This was the first time Sherlock was allowed out of his room since his arrival. He was introduced to the staff who would be helping him. He was his usual rude self on introduction, he had no interest if these people would like him or not. He was already fully aware that he didn't like them. The communal area was filled with one long sofa, two armchairs and a relatively large TV. It had 5 different coloured doors around the edge. These were obviously the patients rooms, all single sleepers judging by the size. He watched as nurses used plastic key cards to enter and exit the locked doors to the patient rooms. These would be easy enough to pick pocket which he made a mental note of before scanning the room again. A nurse was sat at the high desk near the entrance to the ward. She was a plump lady with greying hair. Two children by the looks of her stress lines and clear signs of a nicotine addict. The irony of that in this place humoured him. Along with the nurse there was also a strongly built man who stood guard over the swinging double doors that led onto the ward. He only caught a glimpse of this man when a doctor exited into the corridor but it was enough to decipher the types of people contained on this ward. This area was obviously only for those detained under the mental health act and may pose a risk to other people and had to have limited access to areas in the hospital and especially to areas outside. Sherlock couldn't believe he was being made to associate with such a crowd. As if he was one of them. There were three more doors leading off from the communal area. Two of which led to bathrooms complete with showers, they were clinically clean like the rest of the ward. Sherlock was shown around one whilst the other was obviously for female residents which there currently were none. He assumed this room would be locked and therefore irrelevant. The third door led of to a corridor and held his destination. Along the corridor were two rooms which he presumed would be sleeping accommodation for nurses. This ward would be high maintenance so long shifts would be necessary. There were two other doors with gold name plaques at eye height. The nurse knocked on the one which had the name Dr Matthias Jr Brown. She opened the door to reveal a well kept doctors study. It contained a large bookcase with psychological manuals and texts as well as a large central desk where a man in his 30s was sat. He looked up as the pair entered. He smiled, nodding at the nurse who departed leaving the two men alone. Sherlock sat down on the softly padded armchair in the corner of the room before being asked and pulled out his phone to find a distraction for the next boring hour.

"Would you mind putting that away for me Sherlock? It might be a bit difficult to get to know you if your nose is buried in technology." He smiled. Sherlock glance upwards before smirking and returning his gaze to his phone.

"Something amusing?" The psychologist said puzzled.

"Just deducing." Sherlock said staring at Dr Brown.

"And what have you deciphered so far?" The Doctor asked. Sherlock smiled, this was his favourite part.

"You're clearly a graduate from a distinguished university judging by the way you wear that suit with so much pride and honour. They've taught you to hold yourself in that way. But this role wasn't your choice. Your father that's where it began. A psychiatrist himself by trade, and wanted his son to follow in his footsteps. This is often the way with men who name their child after themselves. Their ego takes over and want to create a recreation of themselves. You followed in his shadow for years before achieving more than you felt possible. You got your grades and travelled the world. That's clear by the pictures surrounding the room of different photos from different countries. They're clearly not professionally taken but instead are places that hold a lot of meaning for you. You came back from your trip a different man with a desire to help people abroad but your father wouldn't have it and you argued before his untimely death. The top shelf of your bookcases are stacked with travel books and books about working abroad, clearly the idea is not out of your mind but you wanted to try and forget about it to do the job your father encouraged to make him proud as you feel guilty about the stress induced heart attack causing his death. There's something more there though. A secret you've never told. Ohh two years ago? Is that when it happened?"

"When what happened?" The Doctor said nervously.

"When you attacked that boy? He got on your nerves. Too many comments about your father that irritated you. You'd never lain your hands on a child before but this teenager was an exception. You beat him and almost killed him. I can see all this from the anger that's lingering behind your eyes now. The way I've talked about your father, it sets you on edge bringing you back to that day. You dismantled the evidence and got off scot free before you left the job to come here. Everything in the office is new from two years ago, the computer, the desk. Furniture in offices rarely gets replaced so it must have been bought for your arrival. What I wonder know is how many people here would be intrigued to know about your secret." Sherlock rambled. The Doctor stared at him with so much disdain.

"Get the fuck out." He said. Sherlock happily obliged.

By the end of that day the doctor resigned. There was no explanation for the behaviour. All the nurses knew is that the last person to speak to him was the Holmes kid who everyone instantly became wary of. Sherlock didn't mind however as it meant he would be left to himself.

The day had passed in pretty much the same boring manner. After Sherlock was kicked out of therapy he was taken back to his room where he picked at a sandwich they provided for lunch. Following this he was led back out to the communal area for social activities. Sherlock looked around at the four other boys accommodating in this ward. Judging by their appearances they were all between 19 and 24 with Sherlock being the youngest out of the group. As this was not a children's ward there wouldn't be anyone under 18 and from the age range of the occupants he assumed this ward was for miscreants between 18 and 25. He sat himself down in the comfiest looking armchair and observed the people around him in order to start deducing them. There was a ginger boy to his left. He looked about 21 and was shaking. Not just a nervous shaking but also a longing trembling. Sherlock recognised the symptoms. This was a guy in need of a fix. Not of drugs however but of alcohol. An addiction stemmed from stress. Clearly the signs of a debilitating anxiety disorder. Boring. Who was next? Sherlock turned to stare at the blonde boy on the sofa opposite him. The way he was sat was odd and that was saying something for this place. He was sure blondie hadn't moved since he entered the room. Ah of course. A catatonic schizophrenic. Interesting. The man was about 22 so the second oldest out of the group. He also had clearly been here a while judging by the way the nurse were dealing with his situation trying to coax him back to reality, clear signs of practised behaviour. The next boy along was a classic case of depression, on his way out of it too judging by the productivity of his day. The page in front of him was scattered with educational ideas of how the young man could get into university. A waste of time Sherlock thought to himself. He clearly was to fall back into this state as soon as he left. The final boy was about 24. The oldest of the group and it showed. A PTSD sufferer. He had experienced an emotional trauma while travelling abroad in South Africa. He had a multi-coloured thread bracelet on his wrist which depicted the colours of the South African flag. With its high levels of kidnap and high crime rates it was likely that something serious had happened to him there. It was all in his body language too. Suddenly the nurse jolted him out of his deductions by making an announcement to the group.

"Okay boys. As you can clearly see we have a new member to our group. Sherlock, would you like to introduce yourself, maybe tell us a little bit about why you're here."

"I think you've just introduced me yourself. I don't do socialising so don't bother wasting your time trying to encourage it." Sherlock said coldly.

"We're all here to help you and I'm sure you'll feel much different when you realise we are all quite similar. Paul why don't you tell Sherlock about this ward." The nurse said turning to the depressed boy.

"Unnecessary" Sherlock said loudly. The nurse looked at him sternly before turning back to Paul and smiling.

"Well this ward is a very specialised unit for those of us who have been detained under the mental health act. Its designed so we can improve to avoid sending us to prison and making our situation worse as they understand its not our fault. So for example I'm here because I tried to drive my car into my ex girlfriends house..." Paul explained.

"Boring." Sherlock complained.

"Sherlock please. That's incredibly rude." The nurse said slightly shocked.

"I don't care, it is. I know that he tried to knock down his ex partners house with his car. I know that boy has an anxiety disorder and tried to commit fraud to get more money to ease his troubles which led him to drink through the stress. He has catatonic schizophrenia and created a public spectacle of himself and he had PTSD and was arrested for locking him and his best friend in a house for two days and not letting him leave. So let's stop these stupid introductions and you can just leave me alone." Sherlock sped through his speech and caused several looks of astonishment in his direction.

"How did you..." The nurse began.

"Never mind how I knew. You people see but do not observe it's a surprise you can make anyone better at all." Sherlock snapped.

"I think you'd better take some time out to yourself Sherlock and allow yourself to calm down. You will not be allowed to partake in today's social activities until your rude behaviour ceases." The nurse said slightly frustrated.

"Finally!" He said sarcastically and got himself to his feet to wait outside his door impatiently to be let in by the nurse. She swiped through key card and he slipped into the room closing the door behind him.

 **Hi guys! Sorry first the delay with this chapter just got very busy all of a sudden.**

 **I'm really pleased with this chapter so tell me what you think too.**

 **Don't forget to follow andirections favourite.**

 **Btw there will hopefully be another chapter before Saturday before a two week hiatus while I go on holiday but there will be more when I come back!**


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The next five days passed in long dragging boredom. Sherlock spent most of the time in isolation in his room. He had not made any effort to improve his rude behaviour so the nurses had decided he would not be allowed outside his room except for singular therapy. This initially didn't bother Sherlock but soon the lack of people to deduce and things to occupy himself made life incredibly boring. He paced up and down his room, reorganised his mind palace three times and slept for hours on end. He could not bear to be trapped inside his mind like this with nothing to occupy him. If they were looking for ways to drive him to insanity this was it. The nurses brought him food three times a day and tried to make conversation with him just to have it thrown back in their faces. They also brought him medication twice a day for his bipolar disorder which he was to take after breakfast and after dinner. It would be brought in with a glass of water which Sherlock never used. He would put the tablet in his mouth and pretend to swallow. This would satisfy the nurses who would smile and leave, he would then proceed to spit the pill in a tissue and throw it in the bin. He didn't need the medication anymore. It was as if his erratic emotions had ceased and were not so dramatic anymore. It was as if the disorder had subsided to make way for something else.

He had always been a self proclaimed sociopath but he had never felt closer to his self diagnosis than since he had come into the hospital. The five days that had passed just allowed for this behaviour to reside more permanently. He rested his head down on his pillow and closed his eyes. His mind wandered back to the time when he first deduced himself as a sociopath, when he was arrested for the attack on his classmate. The similarities between then and now consisted of an almost fatal attack on another person. Sherlock had read enough to know that it had caused a dissociative state between him and other people manifesting in anti-social and potentially sociopathic behaviour. Unlike other people though he welcomed this. It made life easier as emotions became less apparent and allowed him to focus better on what was actually important. He had most of the characteristics of a sociopath already but they had intensified after an event like this. He had come out of the cell a very different person on that first occasion with symptoms that had faded slightly over time, however now the symptoms had risen once again and were quickly becoming an integral part of his personality. Emotions were becoming a void of nothingness which he was enjoying. Far too many times recently he had let them get the better of him affecting the logical part of his brain. He would utilise this lack of emotions so it would give way to allowing pure cold reason to be at the forefront of his mind. He had always known caring to be a disadvantage but again he had lost some of this emphasis recently. He was now capable however of cutting out attachments from his life. It was as if the sense had been knocked back into him from his attack on Anderson. This state of difference and dissociative behaviour to others he was feeling wasn't to last forever so he had to work hard to encourage it to. Just like he had last time, it would define who he is and help him to improve himself.

The ward had quickly replaced his therapist after his stunt with the last doctor and this one was appearing much more difficult to get rid off. After initially deducing the man he had quickly realised that Dr Stapleton had no skeletons in his closet that would force him out. Sherlock had therefore resorted to the silent treatment until his next plan to get rid of the doctor formed in his mind. So far the two had shared about 5 hours of one sided conversations. He had his next appointment in about half an hour where he would try a new method of getting out of therapy. He knew in the end he wouldn't gain from it but it gave him power to stop doing something that he didn't want to do and that was something that was very limited in this place. He had to do everything he was told to do and if he didn't then he would be forced to do it anyway, in a way it was like living with Mycroft. The door to his room was unlocked and Sherlock reluctantly pulled himself off the bed to follow the nurse to the therapist office before going back to her desk. He was supposed to knock before entering but he was prepared to see how much he could irritate Dr Stapleton so he waltzed right in leaving the door wide open in a passive aggressive manner before dropping himself into the armchair.

"Sherlock can you make sure you knock next time and shut the door behind you." Dr Stapleton said not expecting a response.

"What for?" Sherlock said bluntly.

"Oh are we doing conversation today?" He said crossing the room to shut the door. "And because it's polite."

"Like I care. That's what you're here for anyway. To do those things for me."

"That's not exactly my role Sherlock."

"Sure you just continue to believe that." Sherlock mocked standing up and picking up some items on the desk and pocketing a couple of bits.

"What are you doing Sherlock?" Dr Stapleton asked inquisitively. Sherlock just shrugged in response and started throwing some pens across the room to try and get them to land in the bin on the other side of the room.

"Your trying to irritate me so that i'll ask you to leave and I can tell you now it won't work."

"Then why not just let me leave now it would save you a lot of effort." Sherlock said frustrated.

"And if you just worked with me it would save you a lot of effort and you would get out of here quicker."

Sherlock scoffed and landed himself back in the armchair realising he would have to endure the whole hour.

"Good. You obviously seem a bit agitated today." The doctor began.

"Well yeah I'm spending my life in a clinical prison surrounded by idiots who I'm trying to convince I'm sane. It would drive anybody mad. Oh the irony."

"You don't believe you should be here?"

"Well of course not. There's nothing wrong with me."

"Having a mental disorder isn't saying there's 'something wrong with you' it just means that you're ill."

"But I don't have a mental disorder." Sherlock said frustrated. His fists curling up in his lap. How could these people be so infuriating. Was it not clear to see that he was fine?

"I believe you're medical records show a diagnosis of bipolar disorder?"

"Yes but I'm obviously over that now." Sherlock was getting annoyed now. He hated having to repeat himself and that's what he felt he was constantly doing in this place.

"I do have to admit that I don't see much of that diagnosis in you anymore but mainly because you're trying to suppress it's appearance to others. You are good at hiding your emotions Sherlock but it's not necessary. Your feelings are not something to be feared if you know how to control them."

"I do know how to control them. I'm a high functioning sociopath I don't feel emotions."

"A sociopath? I haven't read that information in your medical records." The doctor said confused.

"Well you wouldn't because it's a self diagnosis. I understand myself better than others and I know that's what I am. Its not something I want to change either. It helps me to focus on what's actually important."

"I feel like you don't fully understand your emotions and how they can benefit you. You clearly still suffer from bipolar disorder but your putting an act on to make yourself feel like you're suffering anymore."

"Well you're wrong. I don't even want your help anyway so I don't understand why you're still trying." Sherlock said coldly.

"Have you faced a lot of rejection in your life Sherlock?" Dr Stapleton asked calmly.

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Well people who face a lot of rejection in their lives often find it difficult to accept help from others. Your difficulties in having trust in other people and accepting their support means that you struggle with your issues on your own in the wrong ways leading to substance abuse and rejecting others in return." The doctor diagnosed calmly. Before he knew it Sherlock was on his feet shouting.

"Stop assuming you know me. You don't. I'm perfectly capable of living my life without you fuckers sticking your nose in."

"This is what I'm talking about Sherlock. You are trying to hide your emotions instead of working with them."

"Are we done?"

"Yes I suppose we can call that it for today." Dr Stapleton responded as Sherlock headed towards the door. "Sherlock you'll have to work with me if you want to get out of here."

Sherlock looked back at him and glared before slamming the door behind him. He headed back along the corridor and into the communal area towards his room, still fuming.

"Hey Sherlock." Someone shouted from behind him. He spun on his heel to see Paul, the depressed boy he had met earlier this week.

"Haven't seen you all week mate are you alright?"

"Why is everyone here obsessed with feelings? I am fine and I'm not your mate." Sherlock said angrily. He was already worked up from his therapy session and this boy wasn't helping matters.

"Woah cool it. I was just asking. I'm going home tomorrow so I was just going round to say goodbye."

"Rub it in our faces more like."

"You know what? I wish I never said anything to you, you ungrateful git." Paul said in response. He hated how obnoxious Sherlock was.

"Well that's make two of us." Sherlock responded.

"You're no better than the rest of us you know. You think you're all high and mighty but when it comes down to it you're just as troubled as we are, maybe even more so." Paul said spitefully. Somebody had to be blunt to get through to him. Sherlock just turned his back and continued walking. Paul grabbed his shoulder to spin him round. "Hey I'm talking..."

Sherlock felt the strong grip on his shoulder and swung round and planted his fist into Paul's face causing him to fall to the floor. Paul touched his mouth and his eyes widened at the blood on his hand from the cuts on his face.

"Don't touch me again." Sherlock said menacingly bending over the figure on the floor with his fists raised. Suddenly he was tackled to the ground by the large bodyguard who normally stood watch over the doors. Sherlock didn't even bother to struggle, just allowing the large man to deposit him ungracefully in his room.

He crossed his room and looked down to the bustling streets below. He thumped his fists on the glass. He longed to be down there with the crowds. He had to get out of here whatever it took. His opportunity was now if ever. Ten minutes later the click of the door sounded and he put his plan to action with the element of surprise by running straight out of the room, knocking the nurse over as he passed. The nurse was picking herself up off the floor shouting after him but Sherlock was already at the swinging doors to the ward. He formed his plan in a matter of seconds pushing as hard as he could on the left hand door. It hit the bodyguard hard in the back of the head dazing him. This was his chance as he ran out the right hand door and down the corridor to the metal fire escape stairs. He realised now how ridiculous this plan was as the pounding of feet sounded behind him and he had no idea where he was going. Three flights of stairs later he darted out onto the wards to try and lose his pursuers. He was in a maze of patient rooms and wards and was slowly loosing his bearings. Footsteps were sounding closer behind him as his disadvantage in his environment increased. "psst...psst..." a whisper sounded to his left. He turned panting to see a small older lady peering around the edge of a door. "In here."

Sherlock quickly obliged slipping into the room just in time as footsteps issued outside the room. He panted and sunk to the floor and closed his eye, before he knew it he was asleep.

 **Last chapter before my holiday hiatus.**

 **The chapter is a bit manic so sorry if it's not as good as the others.**

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 **I will post when I come back.**


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Sherlock awoke a few hours later to find himself in an unfamiliar environment. It took a few minutes for his mind to adjust and remember the events that had transpired earlier that day.

"Hello sleepy head." A lady said to him. Sherlock propped himself up on to his elbows on the pillow on the floor, momentarily puzzled by the soft comfort that had been provided for him.

"Oh yes I thought you might have wanted a pillow, you looked very uncomfortable on the floor." The lady smiled. She had a kind maternal face and a calming approachable nature. She was in her late fifties and Sherlock deduced her to be a married woman with no children. Despite being a British woman, she had clearly spent a large proportion of her life across the pond.

"Thanks." He muttered, pulling himself up to a sitting position and ruffling his curls.

"People have been very worried about you, you know. I've had all sorts knock at the door asking if I'd seen a Sherlock Holmes." She said with a reproachful look but a hint of a smile.

"I'm guessing you didn't tell them where I was then." Sherlock said thankfully. He paused. "But why?"

"Apologies if you think I'm making snap judgements but to me you don't look like the sort of boy to run unless there's something to get away from." She said kindly. "What are you running from sweetheart?"

Normally Sherlock hated affectionate names and terms but from this lady he didn't mind, it just felt natural. He assumed this must be what talking to a real mother actually felt like.

"I'm from the ward upstairs. The one with the delinquents." Sherlock said plainly.

"I see." She paused. "I didn't have you down as a criminal."

"And I expected you to have children but that's clearly not the case." He said rudely.

"Ah well nature hasn't been kind to me." she said sadly. Sherlock hesitated, realising he'd been rude. He didn't quite know how to go about apologising so he changed the subject back.

"Anyway I'm not a criminal. I've just been bunched with that lot because of something that wasn't my fault." He said.

"So what happened?" The lady asked curiously.

"I...uhh...well to cut a long story short I sort of beat someone unconscious and tried to stab them." Sherlock said realising that probably was quite bad when he phrased it like that. "In my defence he had it coming."

Rather than looking shocked and backing off however, the lady just laughed. "Well that's taught me to never judge a book by its cover. You're quite a character Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock lip curled slightly into a smile.

"That not to say I condone your actions however and I think there's more to this than you say otherwise you'd be in a prison cell rather than here."

"Astute deduction. I have an irritating older brother who believes this place is in my best interests with a medical history to support his statement." He said bitterly.

"Well family is all we have in the end and we do all we can to protect them and set them on the right path."

Sherlock just looked sceptical in response causing her to laugh again. They sat in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't however an awkward silence but was instead peaceful. The silence was soon interrupted as someone knocked on the door. Sherlock's eyes widened. The lady gestured for him to crawl under the bed, knocking her medical chart off the stand as he did so. Curiosity getting the better of him he pulled the chart with him under the bed. An exchange of conversation could be heard above his head which was too muffled to decipher. Sherlock turned his attention to the chart in his hands, it read:

HUDSON, Martha

Gender: Female

Age: 58

General Health: Good

Medical Notes: Patient is here due to circumstances which have resulted in a high need for surveillance and health check ups.

Sherlock stopped reading as he heard the door close and the footsteps pad away down the hall. He rolled out under the bed and smiled at Mrs Hudson.

"You've got to go back eventually dear. I can't hide you here forever."

"I suppose." He said standing up and stretching out. He turned to Mrs Hudson who was eating a sandwich that the visitor had obviously provided for her. "I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"You seem perfectly sane. What are you doing in a place like this? You clearly have come back from America recently but why?" Sherlock said puzzled. There was just something that wasn't adding up.

"I believe that is a story for another day." She smiled. "Now you are to do something for me Sherlock."

He looked back at her imploringly.

"You are to go back to your ward and get yourself better. Its important that you get that obviously clever brain of yours back into the world. You just need to accept their help and it'll be a less painful process."

Sherlock turned up his nose at this but nodded. Mrs Hudson had helped him after all and he felt a strange need to avoid disappointing her.

"You are to come back and see me too at some point. I want to see how you look when you're not skin and bones. I might even be able to tell you why I'm here." She laughed.

"Oh I'll be back don't you worry." Sherlock promised. She encouraged him over to her and she gave him a brief hug. He awkwardly stood there during the encounter which she just laughed at. Sherlock turned and opened the door and stepped out into the deserted corridor, turning right and climbing up the staircase. He checked the sign on each floor until he found the one which contained his ward. The lights of the city outside were shining brightly against the blackness of the winter sky. A slight glow was appearing in the distance of the rising sun, he had obviously been out all yesterday afternoon and night and doubted that he would be popular on his return. As he entered the corridor towards the ward he was surprised not to see the body guard present. Even from this distance away he could hear raised voices coming from the ward.

"How can you lose a 19 year old boy? I've left him in your care with strict instructions of how difficult he can be and here I am back one week later trying to understand how he is missing."

Sherlock groaned. Of course they would have called Mycroft as soon as he bolted. He pulled his phone out of his pocket which revealed several missed calls from his brother. Preparing himself for the onslaught he pushed open the door to the ward and walks boldly into the room.

"Sherlock! Where the hell have you been?" Mycroft shouts as soon as he steps foot on the wall, grabbing him by his upper arm with one hand and brushing his hair roughly of his face with the other as if checking for injuries. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. As if you care anyway." He muttered.

"Everyone's been extremely worried about you Sherlock. You shouldn't run off like that." The nurse said gently.

"Don't patronise me." He said whilst his brother shot him a warning glance.

"Come Sherlock, let's have a talk about this in your room." The head nurse said firmly. Sherlock still failed to remember her name but he didn't care, it was only a minor detail after all. He was lead to his room by Mycroft with the head nurse and other ward nurse closely behind. They sat in the room for several minutes before they were joined by Dr Stapleton. Sherlock was sat cross legged like a child on the bed whilst the 'grownups' were seated in chairs surrounding him.

"Running off like that was incredibly irresponsible of you. We understand you are struggling to adjust here and refused the help we provide but running away from your problems is not the answer." The head nurse started, her words fading away as his mind wandered to more important things. He dwelled on what Mrs Hudson had said and had to accept her as being right. No matter how much he disliked it, he would have to cooperate to get this business over with. He was skilled at acting and as long as he kept it up he would be out of here in no time.

"...so that is why we have decided a course of constant supervision is best. You will have someone in your room with you at all times. You will attend all group therapy and social activities, all with the supervision of Nurse Julie." The head nurse said indicating to the woman to her left. The last statement had brought Sherlock out of his mind and back into the present.

"That's completely unfair and unreasonable." He exclaimed.

"You did bring this upon yourself Sherlock." Mycroft pointed out.

"Fuck off Mycroft." He said turning his back on the older Holmes.

"We will not be having any of that Sherlock. We will let that one slide but three strikes of misbehaviour and your supervision will be extended for another week." The nurse explained.

"You're all treating me like a child."

"If you stop behaving like one we will stop treating you like one. You're almost 20, it's time you grew up." Mycroft said rising to his feet. "As much fun as this has been, I really must be off. I'll be in touch Sherlock." He said to the younger man's back before sweeping from the room missing the rude gesture that was made at his back.

 **So sorry for the delay guys but here it is!**

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 **They help me to keep writing.**


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

The next four weeks were incredibly painstaking for Sherlock. He followed Mrs Hudson's advice however and behaved as he was expected to. He was left thinking how boring it must be to be a normal person conforming to social etiquette. The nurses were lapping it up however and he was slowly getting his freedom back, he wasn't sure that the therapist was as convinced though. Sherlock was playing the act of the perfect patient but he kept on asking particular questions and making certain comments that implied he was more aware than the idiot seemed.

"The nurses have been giving me regular updates on your behaviour outside of our sessions and they're very impressed with how you're improving, especially since your great escape." He paused. "I know that I've asked before but what's the reason in your drastic acceptance of being here?" Dr Stapleton asked him in their latest session. Sherlock hated having to repeat himself. He didn't think it was worth his time to backtrack on things he'd said especially to those who were blatantly not listening properly the first time. However for this situation he just had to grit his teeth and bear it as he couldn't afford to ruin his act.

"Well I realised that once I ran and found myself alone that I needed the support network that this ward has to offer." He said as politely as he could muster.

"That's interesting to hear you say that but it seems to contradict some things that I've heard."

Sherlock just looked puzzled in response. He had acted how he had supposed to, by eating a small proportion of every meal, taking the medication that had been prescribed, sitting in with group therapy and social activities. He couldn't think what would be wrong with his performance.

"I've spoken to the other boys on the ward who all seem to think you're very disconnected to social interaction. The nurses have picked up on this as well. Its as if you avoid joining in social situations through lack of understanding. That's what makes me surprised that you came back to seek support through other people. It doesn't fit with this sociopathic diagnosis you fall strongly into."

Sherlock was speechless at this. He couldn't believe he had missed such a crucial part to his act that could foil the whole thing. He had never even thought of interacting with others. Anyway he didn't understand the need to talk to them as he was happier alone and enjoyed his own company rather than the uncomfortable situation of not understanding jokes, or being bored by regular conversation or his lack of empathy and understanding of others people's emotions. However at this present time it had let him down.

"I know this has all been an act Sherlock. The real you still seeps out occasionally. If you just stop pretending we can help you recover from these sociopathic tendencies." The Doctor continued.

"But why?" Sherlock stated.

"Why what?"

"Why the need for recovery? I'm fine as I am. Why do I need to change to become like everyone else?"

"You don't Sherlock, you're missing the point. We aren't here to turn you into something that society perceives to be normal. I understand that often mental disorders especially your particular case are too imbedded in your personality to separate it from you. We just want to help you control it rather than the other way round so you can live to the best of your potential."

Sherlock let these words sink in. He still wasn't keen on being here but he had always liked the idea of being in control of his mind which is something he had often struggled with.

"Look I'll make a deal with you Sherlock. You talk to me properly by dropping the act and we can help you progress and i'll allow you the freedom to leave the ward." Dr Stapleton negotiated. He knew the only way to get through to him was to give him something he wanted. Sherlock looked to the doctor and smirked. No more acting and pretending to care and getting the freedom he deserved just in exchange for some minor details into his life. He was the one gaining out of this. At this rate he'd be out of here in no time.

"Deal."

"There will be ground rules of course. So we will need to know where you are, no staying out after 8pm, you will have to be present for meals and therapy." He stated.

"Yeah whatever." Sherlock said barely listening.

"You must follow these rules as I will remove this privilege if I feel you are taking advantage." He said sternly.

"Of course Doctor." Sherlock replied sarcastically.

Dr Stapleton eyed him suspiciously before calling an end to the session and letting the teenager leave the office. He watched him leave before resting his face in the palms of his hands. He thought he was making progress but he might have just sent him back to the start again. He was definitely one of the most difficult patients he had ever experienced but on the other hand the one with the most potential if he had someone to support him. He thought it a poor idea for Sherlock to ever live on his own. He needed someone by his side to remind him to do things that help people to function. Sherlock described himself as a high functioning sociopath. The sociopath part was certainly true from what he had diagnosed beyond his wavering bipolar disorder but high functioning he was not. The boy would forget to eat, barely sleep and forgo social interaction. He needed someone to help him with those things. He would put forward this statement to the older Holmes on the next review and suggest arrangements should be made for when Sherlock eventually leaves the care of the hospital.

As soon as Sherlock left the office, he headed straight for the exit to the ward and as he expected he was stopped in his tracks by the ward guard.

"You again. Sorry kid but you're not getting past this time." The guard said sternly.

"I've been given permission to go off the ward by Stapleton." He said impatiently. The guard just scoffed and turned back to the door. Sherlock stormed off to the desk where he demanded they spoke to his doctor to allow him to leave the ward. Once he was given the all clear he sauntered through the door smugly receiving a blow to the back of the head as the swinging doors was shut a little too forcefully behind him. Blinking away the stars in his eyes he walked off through the hospital with no destination in mind. Soon his feet took him to a place he instantly recognised as he knocked on the door to the patients room. He heard a small voice calling from inside and he saw the figure of Mrs Hudson sat in the armchair as he shut the door behind him.

"Thought you weren't coming back to see me lovey." She smiled sweetly. Sherlock sat himself down on the bed and smiled back.

"I had to come back, I'm owed a tale that I can't deduce and that intrigues me. I don't like not knowing things." He stated.

"Ah yes. You're curious towards my story." The pair settled themselves down first a chat, Sherlock propped up on the bed with Mrs Hudson in the armchair. "Well as you can obviously tell I'm a Londoner originally. I lived and loved this city for the first 45 years of my life, before I got swept off my feet by a charming man. He had everything and he wanted to share it all with me and we were quickly married. Don't pull that face, one day it might happen to you." Mrs Hudson said in a mock stern manner. "It was such a whirlwind of emotions and naturally I agreed to go with him back to his home in the states. We lived there very comfortably for just over 10 years. He kept very odd hours and had strange habits but I never questioned it and just accepted it as a fact of life. It wasn't until about two years ago when I realised what was really going on. His wide spread drug ring and how he had monopolised the criminal market. He found out that I knew however and things quickly changed, he became cruel and blackmailed me about what was happening. It wasn't until 6 months ago however that I was able to get away from such a place. I was able to get to the police station and reveal what I knew in exchange for being brought back to the UK for my own protection. Naturally they agreed and I was sent here to recover from my ordeal for a short while."

Sherlock said nothing for a minute whilst taking in this most singular narrative.

"But if you were sent here to recover, why are you still here 6 months later when you have clearly recovered?" He queried.

"Ah well you see when I told the police in the states the information that I had gathered, they were already on his case. Although my evidence brought them closer to catching him, there was no direct evidence that could associate him with the crimes. So I'm still here now, for my protection until sufficient evidence can be gathered." She explained.

"But the police are so useless that it could take forever." Sherlock said shocked.

"Well you go show them how it's done my dear and I'll be out of here sooner." She smiled.

Sherlock's mind raved with this idea. The thrill of the chase flooding through him as he subconsciously started planning how this could be done. He didn't realise how long he had been consumed in his own mind for before Mrs Hudson spoke his name softly taking him out of his trance.

The two spoke for another hour before Sherlock said his goodbyes and departed, his mind still full of the prospect of apprehending people half way across the globe. He would have to be very careful how he planned this so as not to raise suspicion. He would also need to acquire some funds to pay for flights. This was becoming rather fun, and he knew exactly what he should do next.

 **Sorry for the delay in uploading everyone! Hopefully the next chapter will be quicker!**

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	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

The staff were becoming increasingly worried about the strange teenager that inhabited room number 2. After such an incredible change in behaviour for the better that he had recently been exhibiting, this isolated disconnected youth had definitely backtracked into bad habits once again. Little did they know however that instead of falling into a numb casing of a human, he was thriving with thoughts and a buzz of adrenalin, one that he had condensed into a corner of his mind palace where he was conducting his plan for escape. It was almost complete as well, it was now just a case of putting it into action.

Sherlock stood looking out of his window on the gloomy afternoon sky when the plan began. He knew the routines of this monotonous ward off by heart by now and any second a nurse would enter his ward to ask him to join in the social activities planned for the group. His right fist was curled around a small sharp blade he had retrieved yesterday. It had been easy enough to acquire by accident knocking a glass of water over in his therapy session and snatching the sharpener whilst Doctor Stapleton had been distracted. It was then just a case of removing the screw and you had a handy little blade. Sherlock smirked at the oblivious nature of the supposed observant staff that this ward has to offer. He was well aware that this was dangerous but to him it was the most believable method of securing himself out of the ward for a couple of days. If he had just faked being ill then the doctors would have picked up on it quickly and sent him straight back to the nutter ward. This way he could ensure himself sufficient time.

5 minutes and the nurses would be in.

The time was now.

Sherlock wasn't scared of pain. If anything he relished in it. Loving just how alive it made him feel. He brought the blade up to his left arm and made a deep cut. Possibly deeper than he anticipated as the blood came pouring out onto the wooden flooring, a small red lake surrounded the island that was his feet. Sherlock dropped his tool to the ground and gasped as the new cut stung against the open air. He clasped his right hand to his arm and felt the warm blood coating his palm. The door clicked open behind him just in time as he fell to the ground. This was not the best start to his plan, being left vulnerable as he faded into blackness. The shouting voices faded into his subconscious as everything went blank.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound was faint but so recognisable as the distinct sound of a heart monitor. He smiled to himself. Okay it may not have gone according to plan but the result was the same. He was away from the ward and the opportunities to get away were much higher. He sat himself up to rest on the crisp white pillows, realising as he did so that a throbbing pain was issuing though his head. Possibly from where he made contact with the floor from the blackout. He pushed the pain to a secluded section in the back of his mind as he needed to focus on his plan from now on and he needed every aspect of his mind to do so. He ripped the IV from his wrist causing it instantly to bleed from the aggressive motion. He raised his other arm to reveal a clean white bandage wrapped around his wrist. Curiosity getting the better of him he unravelled the cover which allowed him to see the deep gash located just below the base of his palm. He ran the thumb on his right hand across the cut relishing in the stinging sensation. Pain made him feel alive and the closer to death he was, even at his own hand, then the more alive he felt. Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't let himself get distracted. He settled himself back down on the bed and closed his eyes. It was a waiting game now. The most unpredictable phase of the plan so far but at the same time the most reliable. He knew he would show. He always did. Despite what he forced others to believe, he was incredibly predictable.

Sherlock only had to wait a couple of hours in the end. He had lost himself in his mind palace in that time finalising all the details of his plan in order to pull it off as smoothly as possible. The sound of his pace and the gentle tap of the umbrella tip on the cold hospital floor established his arrival before the sight of the older Holmes. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly smirking slightly as his brother opened the door and entered the room. There was a pause before his brother spoke gently.

"Oh brother dear, you do get yourself into some sticky situations." The older Holmes stepped slowly before standing at the foot of the bed. He was resting both his hands on the handle of the umbrella towering his impressive power over the weak younger man in the hospital bed.

"Good to see you too Mycroft." He said sarcastically adding the slight crack to his voice as he spoke to install a sense of vulnerability

"Why Sherlock? That's all I want to know." His face didn't have the usual arrogance that he had learned to associate with his older brother but instead an ingrained worry and possibly sadness etched his face. Sherlock had only ever seen this look a couple of times but couldn't associate the emotion to it, especially at the present time whilst he had other things on his mind. He had thought this moment through whilst resting in the hospital bed and although his brother evoked the arrogant cocky side of him which provoked sarcastic responses from the younger Holmes, he had to remain in character in order to gain his prize.

"I was struggling." Sherlock said. He paused for effect to let the words sink in. Silence. "I guess it was a cry for help. I thought I was improving but I'm guess I'm still the same mess I always was." He curled in on himself, turning his back on the door and covering his face with his arm.

The curtain rises the stage is set. He was ready to begin.

The footsteps padded across the floor towards the bed. He felt the mattress shift slightly as his brother perched on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry Sherlock. I truly am. I should have seen this coming." Mycroft ran his hand across his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock sat himself up slowly in bed and looked at his brother. Even without acting he looked weak and frail, pulling on his brother's non existent heart strings.

"Mycroft...I...I..." Sherlock stammered as he prepared for his final party trick. A skill he had learned young in childhood to get the attention of those who sympathised with the poor lonely boy. A few small tears fell from his eyes which he quickly wiped away before more fell and he wrapped his arms around his older brother. God this was unbearable he thought. Stunned, Mycroft slowly reached around his skinny younger brother and pulled him close. For a moment Mycroft felt like they were children again and he was protecting his baby brother.

Sherlock pulled away after a while, quickly wiping his face again. "I think I need some rest now." He said sniffing slightly and fiddling with the hem of the sheet. "Will you promise you'll come back next week though? I've missed you Myc." The use of his brother's childhood nickname sealed the deal as Mycroft smiled softly. Sherlock curled up into bed as he heard his brother whisper something and walk away the door sweeping shut behind his brother.

Five minutes later Sherlock was smirking as he clutched the leather wallet in the pocket of his jeans, the cash burning a hole in his pocket. The desire to be spent was unbearable but he had to keep it safe. He couldn't risk using the card for being found out too quickly. The cash was what he has been after anyway. Mycroft always carried cash. He was old fashioned in that way and the wadded notes padded out the classic wallet to an extreme thickness. He carefully made his way out of the hospital, doing everything he could to not to be seen. The best disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight and when there was a big crowd it made it easier.

He breathed in a deep gulp of air as he drowned himself in the sensation of being outside. He had forgotten how long it had been since he had felt the breeze stroke his face and course through his hair. He walked a few streets soaking up his freedom before realising he didn't have time to get distracted. Cursing himself for his lack of self control he set himself on his way. Sherlock made a brief stop on route to his destination purchasing a black Superdry windcheater jacket, a grey branded jumper, blue jeans and a pair of white Fred Perrys. Stopping off in a public toilet he changed into his new attire ditching his scruffy old clothes in a bin, he headed to London City Airport.

"USA here I come."

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	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he clambered out of the taxi outside City Airport. The thunder of the planes above his head rumbled his chest, increasing the excitement he currently felt. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled £10 note which he pushed through the open passenger window into the driver's calloused hand before turning on his heel straight into the terminal. The buzz of senses suddenly overwhelmed his head. He span on the spot as the bustle of noise and busy sights flooded his mind. Sherlock's breath deepened as he stepped back against a wall and pushed his hands to his ears. His attentive eyes suddenly caught sight of a teenage traveller standing oblivious to the torrent of people consuming the space around him. Sherlock made his move and swiped the cable hanging from the camouflage backpack and newly equipping himself with a pair of black beats headphones. He slid them onto his head over his mess of curls, dulling some of his senses and allowing his thought processes to strive once again. He checked the flight boards and saw that a flight was due to leave for Florida in three hours time. Perfect. He sauntered up to the correct desk and smiled pleasantly at the fake plastic woman who perched behind the counter. She looked the boy up and down with a flicker of apprehension before speaking.

"How may I help you my dear?" she smiled sweetly, white teeth shining brightly under the deep red lips.

"One ticket to Florida. Flight FL9865." He replied with confidence. Sherlock took in her appearance and allowed the deductions to roll in. Recently married despite the short relationship. The jewellery was expensive but all brand new. It could only have been purchased in the last six months. Reading into that and taking into account her immaculate appearance, clearly a woman who appreciates the finer things in life. Married for her husband's wealth and holding no affection for her legal partner were all things that were painstakingly obvious to him. Did she have someone on the side maybe? No definitely. And if he was not mistaken, she was sitting two seats down.

"So we have economy seats left for this flight at a cost of £700." She stated.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and got out the wallet, he pulled out the cash and slapped it down onto the desk.

"I believe that should cover it." If Sherlock didn't look suspicious before, he definitely did now. It was unusual for anyone to carry this much cash, let alone someone Sherlock's age. The lady behind the desk raised her eyebrows slightly but continued to process his request by typing into her computer.

It took an hour before he was cleared through the desk and security but eventually he was through to the departure lounge. The job of filling his time for the next two hours was overwhelmingly tedious but skills he had picked up on the street came in useful once again. Holiday makers were too trusting and out of focus that acquiring their possessions was like child's play. The different collections of foreign currency that he acquired were easy enough to exchange in this environment and before long he was swamped with sterling and dollars. He purchased himself a small cabin luggage case and visited a few clothes stores to collect some items to take with him. The suitcase was soon full with a pair of Nike trainers, another pair of Fred Perrys, two pairs of jeans and a couple more long sleeved tops. He had also picked himself up a new iPhone from the technology store as he had to leave his own phone at the hospital to avoid traceability. The cash that he had collected from the many tourists was starting to dwindle however so he invaded a couple more people's pockets collecting some American credit cards in the process before his flight was called for boarding. Sherlock knew his actions were easily traceable and if he had more time and better opportunities he would have arranged a fake passport and identity. He just had to hope that once it was picked up by Mycroft he would be long out of reach with his investigation under way.

There was no other word for it. Boring. The journey was dull and unstimulating. He deduced his fellow passengers for a while but it was pointless, everyone was the same. So absorbed in their monotonous little worlds. What must it be like in their funny little brains he thought. It must be so boring. The end could not come soon enough and when it did eventually arrive, it brought with it a new wave of thrill and excitement. The sun shone brightly above his head and it was warm and exhilarating on his skin. He climbed into the back of a taxi and requested to be dropped of at a motel not far from the airport. He typed furiously on his phone during the journey, searching for all the clues he could gain to help him with his task ahead. His body felt severely jet lagged but his mind felt alert and responsive. Arranging payment with the motel owner, he set himself up in his home from home.

Sherlock contained himself to the motel room for three days, only leaving to purchase newspapers and visit the local library to print off news bulletins. The new wallpaper was a pattern of text and photos with conjoining string between posts connecting the dots. To anyone else it looked like the work of an obsessed madman but the reality was that it was the workings of an investigation. He was soon ready to do his field work, to get out to the streets and bring the game to the key stages. He has spent a few minutes late the night before skimming over Google maps and storing the layout to his mind palace. He was ready to take to the streets. He looked into the grubby mirror over the small sink in the corner of the room. He messed up his flyaway hair and swiped a dusty hand across his face. It helped that he had not had a satisfactory meal for a couple of days as it gave his face a gaunt shadowed appearance. He looked the part and he knew perfectly well how to act the part. The time was now. Sherlock left the motel and walked the streets using his memory to track his steps to where he knew his destination sat. The environment became more dishevelled and the streets more littered. A state of disrepair had fallen upon this area. It was as if the population has given up on the region knowing that it had no hope and was not worth the trouble to improve it. He soon came across a dilapidated house, crumbling at the edges and slithers of light sneaking in through the gaps in the boarded up windows. Sherlock put on his character and stumbled across the pavement slamming his hand against the door several times. The door opened slightly on a chain and Sherlock toppled forward as the door did. He could see the right hand side of a man's face peering at him through the gap.

"What do you want?" the rough American accent called from the other side of the door.

Sherlock smiled weakly at the gap and put on his best American drawl, "I heard this is a good place to get me some shit. Am I right man?"

"Do one kid" the man said through the gap before moving to shut the door. Not before Sherlock had conveniently dropped the contents of his pocket, scattering the floor with hundreds of dollars. He shuffled to pick them up and shove them back in his pocket. The man opened the door a little wider.

"Hey kid why don't you give me one of those and I'll let you in." His grey eyes greedily lingering on the cash still remaining in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked at the stranger and shoved a reasonably large wad into the man's palm before the door opened wide enough to give him passage to the underworld. The gloom inside was desperately depressing it created a dark whole inside your chest that made you just want to sink deeper into your own despair. Remaining in character Sherlock stumbled up the stairs leading into a large open area with blankets and debris scattering the room. Deathly figures and skeleton like bodies were spread out across the floor. There was about 20 people in the room in total. A corridor with large wooden doors swept off to one side and Sherlock's inquisitive mind instantly had a longing to look in those rooms. For now however he continued to appear as a junkie. A man had clocked his vulnerability when he entered and approached him, stuffing his hands into his pockets subconsciously as he walked.

"Hey kid, not seen you round here before." He eyed him suspiciously. "What's your name?"

Sherlock had already decided to give himself an alias as his own name was too easily recognisable and distinctive.

"Nick." He replied in his fake accent.

"Well Nick...What can I do for you? What's your thing?" he asked suspiciously still pulling out a few baggies and paraphernalia from his black Mac pockets. Sherlock instantly grabbed a needle and bag of coke, dropping some cash into the strangers hand. The dealer paused and so did Sherlock. He hadn't considered that they would want him to prove that he would take the drugs. He wanted a clear head to conduct his plans and despite how much he loved the drugs he didn't want to take them maybe this was what recovery was like. However to get himself in, he had to follow their rules. He tracked back into old habits easily and felt what he considered to be liquid gold hit his system. The dealer gave a satisfied smirk and headed away. He was in but at what price?

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	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

The house felt empty. The car felt lonely. The hallways felt abandoned. Mycroft felt lost. He didn't know what he would find upon arrival at the hospital. Was he here to receive a joyous revelation? Or more likely a black hole where his heart used to be? He clenched his clammy hand tighter around the wooden curled umbrella handle. His pace increased slightly as he walked the long corridor to the ward housing his brother. He rested his hand on the door handle, took a deep breath and stepped inside. It was difficult to see his brother struggling. As a child he had sworn that he would always be there for him and even though things had been difficult recently, he would not go back on that promise. He tried not to let his emotions show too much as the meeting with his brother progressed, it was a sign of weakness that Sherlock would always try to exploit. Mycroft also had to make it clear that he was the stronger brother. This became increasingly difficult however when he received the hug at the end. Making his way back home he felt numb, Mycroft usually tried not to let emotion affect him but it would always be Sherlock who managed to break through that wall. Trying to shut out his feelings once again, he lay down on his bed preparing for the night.

Mycroft was awoken by the harsh ringing of his phone just before midnight. He had only just settled down into rest after the stress and frustrations of his working day finally ceasing.

"Mycroft Holmes" he answered stiffly as he rested the blackberry against his ear. He straightened up in his bed as the other end of the line conveyed their message. Mycroft said nothing, just placed the phone face down on the bedside table pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as the permanent headache throbbed in his temples. Should he have seen this coming? Surely this was his plan all along. Mycroft thought back to his interaction with Sherlock in the hospital, taking in all his unusual behaviour and analysing it in his head. The realisation that the innocent brotherly hug was nothing more than a petty theft. He didn't even need to look to know that the wallet that had previously been tucked in his coat pocket would no longer be there. Mycroft hadn't even thought to check that all his possessions remained in the same state as when he arrived to the hospital as he believed his brother to be in no state to think rationally let alone act irresponsibly. What had possessed him to board that flight anyway? What was it that held such intrigue that would force him to jet off to an unknown country? What he did know however was that he had to find out why his brother had left as well as getting him home safely. Mycroft picked up his phone and placed one of many calls he would make that night.

"Anthea. Yes thank you. Can you get Henry to prepare the plane? I need to make an urgent trip."

Three hours later Mycroft was in his private jet on his way to the United States. He had gathered all the information he could in the short space of time that he had before he boarded the plane and was now perusing the brown file resting on the table in front of him. It contained his brothers movements from the hospital to the airport. So detailed was the information that it infuriated Mycroft that he was not provided with this data sooner. Unfortunately after entering the airport and boarding the flight however, the trail goes cold. Mycroft had considerable power and control although his area of persuasiveness was limited when dealing with some international affairs such as the one he was currently dealing with. He had the ability to trace his brothers exact movements through CCTV and general know how in the UK, however Florida's camera footage was not as easy to attain as he would require significant amounts of documents and permits and by the time he had acquired the relevant paperwork his trail would be cold once again. He would have to use his own intuition to trace his brothers steps which he immediately got to work doing by entering his own mind palace to get into the thought processes of his younger brother. Sherlock had his escape places in the UK but to escape to the USA would not be in his repertoire. The younger Holmes adored London and would not bolt for any reason other than exploration or necessary means, therefore there must be something that he has absorbed himself into with the next step in his journey to follow here.

The plane juddered slightly as it tackled some slight turbulence when coming in to land pushing Mycroft to his senses as he settled back into the leather chair, closing his eyes to experience the landing. His plan had formed in his head as the flight had continued and he had decided to use a different strategy to all previous encounters in which he was not going to interfere but watch from afar. This isn't something that he had attempted before as anytime Sherlock had tried to do something remotely individual, Mycroft had interfered to avoid potential dangerous situations arising. This time however he would sit back and observe silently to gain all information he could about the situation. He would have his people out and about on the ground to get the information whilst he would limit his field interactions. Mycroft wanted to involve the American authorities as little as possible. The less Sherlock was investigated the better. Mycroft climbed down the steps of the plane into the late night American air, the bright lights of Florida shining around him. The black Chrysler was awaiting him on the tarmac, the tall bodyguard from the plane holding the door open for him.

The journey to the hotel was a short one, Mycroft's eyes scanning the streets as they drove for any glimpse of the young curly haired man but by the time they had reached the hotel, Mycroft was none the wiser to his brother's exact location. He had ensured Anthea had already checked him in to the best hotel with a suite ready and waiting him upon his arrival. The suite was typical quality that he was used to with all the facilities he might need. The glass floor to ceiling windows had a great view across the buildings and the bright lights. The room was decorated in cream with slithers of gold fine detail linking furnishings to complete the room's designer finish. Mycroft set his laptop down on the dark wooden desk and perched himself onto the quilted chair to absorb himself into the search for Sherlock. His people were already on the ground as per instruction, dressed in civilian wear and working hard to blend into surroundings. He had warned his staff that his brother had immense deductive skills and could identify an airline pilot by his left thumb so would be more than capable to identify someone working for his brother from half a mile away. Mycroft sighed deeply and set to work.

Three days passed with no news. Mycroft was getting impatient and his temper was being tested with little sleep and no further information. His phone rang from the desk table and he reached to answer it with reluctance.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Sir, we have sights on the package." A voice sounded from the end of the phone. Mycroft sat up straight in his seat.

"Send me your location and all information you can gather. I want a report on all that has been found. Under no circumstances do not loose sight on Sherlock." Mycroft spoke, the relief flooding through him to know that his brother was safe.

"Confirmed." The voice said and the line ending. Mycroft's phone vibrated almost immediately with a location and a picture. Mycroft struggled to comprehend how his brother had become so different so quickly. The picture showed him leaving a motel on the north side of town, hands in his pockets and a dusty face. The location however showed a place in the north of town. Taking a deep breath, he looked once again down at his phone as three more photos streamed through. They showed a progressive journey into the dodgy north section of town with the final photograph showing his younger brother being let into a collapsing drug den. Mycroft refused to believe it was what it looked like. His brother would not come all the way across the Atlantic to get some product. If he was going to do it, then he would follow the easiest route as he has previously done before. Getting up and grabbing his umbrella, he made his way to the motel that Sherlock had departed from to discover what he could to explain the behaviour his brother was exhibiting. He had a feeling that this was more than met the eye.

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	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The drug had been pumping through his veins for about half an hour now and was beginning to loose its effect, Sherlock craved its intoxicating power once more as he scanned his surroundings looking for more of his sweet of choice. The dealer from earlier looked to have departed and all that surrounded him were young Americans sprawled across dirty mattresses. A maze of junkies littering his pathway to the exit. Sherlock trod carefully between the unconscious people as he made his way towards the stairs. Suddenly he stopped. It was if his mind had kicked into gear again and he remembered his reasonings for gaining access to this building and why he had even come to America in the first place. Turning on his heel, he tiptoed across more teens to the corridor he had spotted earlier, pushing himself up against the wall he listened intently for any sound of movement from the rooms departing from the long corridor. Nothing. He stepped into the hallway ensuring that he stepped carefully as he did so. He had no desire to disturb anyone with a careless creaking floorboard. Reaching the first door in the corridor, he pushed down on the handle and peered inside the dark room. A bed sat central with a boarded up window directly opposite the door. To the right was a cracked mirror above a empty desk. The room looked unused for months and Sherlock quickly discounted it for any useful data collection purposes.

Walking further down the corridor he tried two more rooms with similar success. He was starting to loose faith in his intuition and was reluctant to keep trying the rooms in case he found nothing and had to accept the trail had gone cold. However, upon pushing the handle of the fourth door he smiled. The door slid open easier than the others he had attempted, a clear sign that it was opened regularly as the wood had been worn from interaction with the frame. Although the room was also dark it had a small lamp glowing on a desk to the left of the door. Sherlock slid himself inside the room and closed the door softly behind him. The desk also appeared to house a laptop and a small pull out drawer. Curiosity biting at him, Sherlock pulled on the cold metal handle of the drawer to reveal a weighty handgun laying inside. Picking it up, he held it playfully in his hands, smiling, enjoying the sensation of holding something so deadly in his palm. The power to decide on life and death between his fingertips. A noise sounded outside the door bringing him out of his trance. Footsteps. Dropping the gun back in the drawer he slid it shut and span looking for the quickest way out. There was a small gap at the bottom of the boarded up window that he could attempt to slide through onto the metal fire escape outside. Bounding quickly across the room he crouched and crawled through the gap head first through the thin opening. Sherlock was lucky he had always been skinny. If he was any normal weight there was no way he would have made it through. He heard the door open just as his foot followed his body out the gap. Squatting on the cold metal balcony he listened intently for any sounds. A gruff American voice shouted from inside the room as a drawer slammed shut.

"Do you realise what you've done? You could have fucked up this entire operation you mindless half wit" the gruff voice said with venom.

Peering through the gap in the boards Sherlock saw a tall greying man. He was built like a rugby player with a twist of southern American genes giving him slightly olive coloured skin. His hand was grasped firmly around the handgun that Sherlock had held not moments before. There was no tremor in his hands as he steadily cocked the gun raising it to the short man opposite. The shorter man was younger and his face was pale from fear. Looking more closely, Sherlock could see his palms were bleeding slightly from the force he was balling his fists digging his nails into the soft skin.

"I'm sorry…" the man whimpered. He sounded pathetic in comparison to the gun holding madman. The gun rose in the larger mans hands, raising it to the other mans head and pressing the cold metal against his temple. Sherlock's heart was in his throat as he watched the ordeal play before his eyes. It was if the moment lasted forever before the trigger was pulled. Click. The smaller man whimpered and fell to his knees as the empty gun was brought away from his head.

"Get out of my sight" he was told. He didn't need telling twice as he scuttled away out the door. As the man hurried away, the gruff man took a seat on the leather chair occupying the dark corner of the room.

"Mr Hudson?" A young woman was peering around the door. She had long blonde hair and her New York Manhattan accent put forward a sense of stupidity to her. "They're waiting for you downstairs."

The man sighed, rose to his feet and followed the young blonde out the room putting his arm around her shoulders as he shut the door behind him.

It appeared Sherlock had a face to a name now, his prey had been identified.

In all the excitement Sherlock had almost completely forgotten about his cravings but now the light was beginning to fade and he was starting to make his way back to the motel his mind was preoccupied with the thoughts of cocaine. He shook his head. He could not succumb. He had to focus, keep his mind clear and his head straight. Stopping off at a convenience store he purchased a packet of cigarettes which he chained smoked all the way back to his home from home. He was well aware it would not be strong enough but it was enough to last him a short while.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as if a cold breeze had just caught him, but on this warm evening it was not so. He had the sense that he was being watched, that someone was following him. It was well known that withdrawal can bring on symptoms of paranoia, but this was different. He bent down to tie his laces on his shoe and out the corner of his eye he spotted him. 30 year old male. Single. No children. Unattached. Military background. He had stopped to look in a shop window however his reflection showed his eyes pointing in the direction of Sherlock. He stood up poignantly and carried on walking. There was no point hiding as Mycroft would have tracked him down eventually and it was easier to get it over with which, by looking at the door of the motel room once again, he realised would be sooner than later. Grasping the handle he took a deep breath and preparing for the onslaught to follow he shoved the door open.

"Hello Mycroft. I'm home." he called out into the shallow room. Mycroft stepped into the light, tiredness and stress were etched into the deep circles surrounding his eyes whilst fury was contained in the creased brow.

"Once again Sherlock I find myself asking what the hell you are playing at?!" Mycroft said through gritted teeth. All memory of deciding not to get involved being completely forgotten.

"I'm more interested Mycroft in what you are doing here." Sherlock said trying to convey as little emotion as possible as he knew it would annoy his brother the most by showing how little he cared about how much trouble he had caused once again.

"I'm here to look after my pain of a younger brother of course, and I want you to explain what the hell this is all about" Mycroft questioned pointing to the madman scrawls around the room.

"What's it to do with you? Sticking your nose in as per usual! You can't allow me to involve myself in anything and refuse to let me grow up! Just let me do this on my own." Sherlock replied in frustration glaring at his older brother. Mycroft looked back with the same frustration his younger brother showed before moving forward to begin pulling the paper from the wall.

"No don't!" Sherlock started reaching a shaking hand out in front of him. His eyes wide with fear. Mycroft looked at Sherlock and the trembling hand in front of him. Registering the distress of his younger brother he stopped and stepped away from the wall.

"It's okay Sherlock, I'll leave it alone." Mycroft said calmly.

"It's really important that I do this Mycroft." He said quietly. "There's something here I need to do then I'm going back home, I swear."

"At least come back to the hotel with me now though rather than staying in this hovel." Mycroft said looking in disgust round the small room. He had lost his temper with Sherlock and he felt annoyed at himself.

"No I can't it'll blow my cover. I have to stay here."

Mycroft hesitated. He was incredibly reluctant to leave him here especially since his brother had so obviously relapsed once again. Perhaps that's all this was? A crazy flight after a mad binge? Perhaps if he left him here for the night and returned in the morning the nightmare would be over?

"Okay you can stay here, you just have to promise me you won't leave this room? I'll have people posted outside to make sure of it and then I'll be back in the morning to help you with your….dilemma." Mycroft was cautious to believe Sherlock's crazy schemes that he had read on the plans on the wall. However in order to get his brother on side, appeasing to his current delusional state seemed the most effective.

"Okay fine." Sherlock didn't care now what was going on as he needed to sleep as soon as possible to wear off the crash. Nodding, Mycroft picked up his coat from the back of the hard back wooden chair next to him and swept from the room with one last look at Sherlock before leaving.

Sherlock woke again about five hours later in a cold sweat, his heart thudding in his chest and his hands shaking. Sitting up he reached for the thin duvet and wrapped himself tight. His breathing was heavy as he wiped the sweat from his head. God this was horrid. The mirror on the wall opposite reflected a horrible sight of his pale grey face and sweaty curls clinging to his forehead. Sherlock clung to the blanket for about twenty minutes before making a decision. Dropping the blanket on his way to the bathroom he examined the catch on the window. It was weak and could easily be broken with little force. He pushed his elbow into the surrounding plastic which gave way easily enough for it to swing open. Sherlock heaved himself onto the sink in front which creaked slightly from its poor quality build and wriggled himself through the small gap into the outside world. Keeping his eyes alert he headed down into the questionable part of town that he had been in earlier that day. The streets were dark and eerie and every corner possessed the fear of a hidden dark surprise.

"I know why you're here. He sent you to follow me." Sherlock said suddenly into the darkness. The footsteps behind him halted. The younger Holmes stopped also and slowly started to turn, but before he could fully see his follower he felt a sharp blow to the side of his head. He fell to the ground and everything went black.

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